pineapple head

Used to be all I could do was sleep; curl up in the deliciousness of it and into the dreams that had waited there, patiently, for my homecoming from the world. Dreams that spiralled wantonly into the afternoons.  Heady sleep that burrowed into blankets, smelled of baking bread, ignored phone calls. Not the refreshing, battery charger kind, the heavy lidded, heavy limbed underworld kind.  Sleep that, when it finally released me into the midday sun, continued to follow me through my day like a weighty shadow.

 

Everything is changing.

 

Here in this bed, something is racing. Locked in. I am staring at the ceiling. At the unchanging blank slatedness of it; projecting a slideshow of monsters in the dark thoughts upon it, until, at last, I am drawn in to it’s vast whiteness. In it and of it until I have spun into a thousand colliding fragments of myself, and I forget which one is the me I am supposed to hold onto, and I become a voyeur in the corner, observing these versions of myself, projected again and again, and if I never sleep again I can live with this.