#sleeponnet

[sleep-onnet]

Trying it Out

I start with the ending already in mind

Seeing how quickly I can melt cloud nine

Tying knots on vapor beneath my feet

I toss the lead down to a mirrored me

If the line is taut, I leap

because if the line is taut I see

how it ends

Rope burns, they won't be healing anymore

I've climbed too far up this time, for sure

Before anything happens, if at all

I brace myself for the fall

[sleep-onnet]

Incorrect

I’m good at analyzing myself, he thought.

He was wrong.

[sleep-onnet]

Paralysis

Heart pounding, I open my eyes. 

At first, I see nothing, and it’s hard to tell if they are even open.

I blink to make sure, and sure enough, the view doesn't exist.

The utter lack of anything familiar disorients me.

I feel my mind frantically trying, and failing, to recognise anything in the inky black.

It slowly phases into focus. Its tenebrous hand mimes the turning of a knob, as I feel it adjust the lens of reality. 

The outline of the being is blurry, and it’s impossible to tell where it ends and the black murk begins. Its form is an ever-shifting kaleidoscope, every form beyond recognition.

I look up, expecting to see a face, an identity. Something I can grasp.

But instead of a face, I see a soul.

A mosaic of memories made up of everything I knew, everything I know, and everything I will know. 

ㅤ

Why would something that's seen everything come here? I question.

Being a scientist, I desperately want to know.  To comprehend. 

Being human, I know better than to bear such a burden. 

ㅤ

The being shakes its head, in what seems like disapproval.

Then, its arms extend as it reaches forward. 

It places its hand on my forehead, its fingers cold, but gentle. 

ㅤ

After a brief moment the hand recedes, leaving with me a lingering thought.

An awareness.

It takes a while for me to take in, but I realise:

“Human”.

“Scientist”.

“Me”.

These labels I clung so desperately onto were merely hopeless attempts to claim something, anything, as my own amidst the sea of noise.

But none of that mattered now.

A tingling sensation creeps up my ankle. 

I can't feel my toes.

Shaking my head, I try regaining my composure, hoping to shake off some of the terror

I collect my thoughts, feeling everything and nothing, as my legs start to go numb.

If this keeps rising…  

Time is not on my side. 

It never was, I think to myself.

All the while, I didn't keep my eyes off of the being, in a futile attempt to intimidate it. 

Or maybe I couldn't. 

The numbness is now up to my stomach, but it doesn’t stop the sinking feeling. My entire lower body is  gone. 

Soon, it’ll reach my chest, and then my neck, and after that…

My heart beats rapidly, each beat the tick of a timer counting down the remainder of my life.

Calm down.  Calm down.

I manage to take a deep breath, but its shakiness only makes me realize how little control I have. Over my breath, over my body, and over everything else.

The numbness has reached my neck. I am drowning.

I attempt to thrash my legs in a desperate bid to stay afloat, but there is no water to kick, and no limbs that belong to me anymore.

The terror is unbearable and I attempt to scream, but no sound comes out. 

ㅤ

And, as the numbness reaches my bottom lip, and the horror and insanity reaches a crescendo, it hits me. 

ㅤ

I understand. 

ㅤ

Why am I so scared?  

This one little thought gives me clarity. 

Here, at the very end, I finally see how absurd it all was. 

The truth was staring at me the whole time, yet I was so ignorant. 

I’d lived my whole life in the dark, and only now, moments before my demise, could I see.

So much conflict. So much hatred. So much suffering. And for what?

Man’s search for meaning was meaningless, and declaring that it was, even more so.

ㅤ

I feel the tension ebb away, as do the tremors in my breathing. 

This...this is okay. 

This is how it’s always been.

ㅤ

I let go. Allowing the numbness to wash over me,

the feeling consuming me fully.

I close my eyes.  Savoring the serenity.  And feeling whole again.

I am at peace, at last.

I smile at it, and I finally understand.

"So this was what you wanted all along?"

It smiles back,

A warm, nostalgic smile.

It nods.

“Welcome home.”

[sleep-onnet]

It’s Ok

A poem about my daily existence:

I woke up late today

But it’s okay

I’m a night owl

Haven’t done much yet

But it’s okay 

I’m a night owl

Half the day’s gone

But it’s okay

I’m a night owl

Just had dinner

But it’s okay 

I’m a night owl

Took a shower

But it’s okay

I’m a night owl

I’m in my bed

But it’s okay 

I’m

You know what?

I might be a morning person

[sleep-onnet]

Treasures

Woke up today to see what life really is,

Life is a trove of stories.

Collecting, and telling, and hearing them,

is a surefire way to not bore me.

ㅤ

Some stories are colored with laughter,

others are searing with sorrow.

There’s even stories written hereafter,

like the ones we’ll write tomorrow

ㅤ

And some stories I keep under lock and key

because they’re dear to my heart

Like the ones shared between you and me,

those stories, priceless works of art

ㅤ

Ones to keep and ones to give,

there’s countless categories

of stories to live!

[sleep-onnet]

Finders Keepers

You've left behind a smile on my bedside table

So I guess I'll be hearing it as I fall asleep

[sleep-onnet]

Four Right Turns

I’m stuck inside faulty flowcharts and false dichotomies I think 

I think I can handle the uncertainty if I spend enough time rehearsing 

Rehearsing for goodbyes that haven't happened yet 

Yet I don’t think I’m prepared to fast forward through the grief when it comes

When it comes it will still blindside me because how can I know I've considered everything 

I know I've considered everything, I brace myself for impact and yet I am even less prepared than before it seems 

It seems I’m stuck inside faulty flowcharts

[sleep-onnet]

A Not-So-Modest Proposal

I think once a writer has written enough good material, they shouldn’t be allowed to keep writing more.

Like there’s only a limited number of ways to arrange words in this language, I reckon they need to leave some permutations for the rest of us.

Oh, you’re on book four of a five-book series? Sorry girl, you’ve hit your good-material limit, no can do, better scrap that finale.

Or: “Sorry Steven King, you’ve hit your quota. No more short stories from you”

Yeah. 

This is a great idea.