Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Sleep

I think sleep is a solid. Although it might

be a liquid or a gas. But I would say it’s

a solid. When you sleep, you turn into a brick.

You then become part of a brick wall

and

join other bricks until you wake and you’re

a person again.

Sleep, though, could be

a liquid. Then you’re all alone—on a river in

dinghy, and suddenly your eyes pop open

and you feel woozy.

Sleep could also be a gas,

because your brain can journey to locations

you couldn’t possibly go to awake. Some

of these locations are frightening,

some not,

and a few are even pleasant. But they’re all

unexpected and can’t be planned for. Most

people would say they don’t exist, that they’re

in your mind, but that would be denying

their

presence, and nothing is more real than

presence.

While lying in bed at night, I try to

initiate presence. I talk to my dead friend Elaine.

I ask her to speak to me, even a few words.

Anything. I just want to hear her voice.

I open

my mind and listen, but all I hear is my own

voice pretending to be hers. It makes me sad.

That’s why

I think sleep is a solid. Or maybe

a liquid. Or a gas. Who knows.

I knock on wood before I sleep,

wish everyone I love a safe passage.

Then I close my eyes and

try to go where

I can’t go,

try to see Elaine whom I can’t see.