A. L. Buehrer What I Write and Why

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Insomniac


  It's a strange thing watching the night creep by through the dimly glowing windows, not quite aware that you've been still for hours and hours, silently staring like a corpse, not caring that all the clocks in the house are listening to you breathing. Slowly, midnight passes. It doesn't matter. Gradually, the stars move toward the blackness of the west. You don't even feel it.

  Events occur in a massive block of an element we call time. There has been debate in intellectual circles whether the past is at all moments just as real as the present, which is in turn, just as real as the future. I think it's true.

   You don't even realize it, but you've lain awake, pretending, for the rest of the world's sake that you were asleep, for seven hours. Then, as if in a dream, you see sunlight--or something like it--filling the negative space around the dead fingers of a black tree outside your window. The birds are singing. The watery twilight swells to dawn. It doesn't matter.

  Then, the sun rises. Someone's alarm clock goes off. You sigh, suddenly realizing it's happened again, and then, you pretend to awaken.

1 comment:

  1. Glad sleep deprivation hasn't been the death of you yet. Way to go, Aug! ;-)

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