19 Jun 2015

Lain Awake

In the dead of the night my girl's body is deliciously warm and the sheets are cosy yet I am actively thinking about the bullshit excitement, dread, resentment thrillseek possibilities of the headfuck that is this Enterprise Bargaining Agreement, and the madness spilling on the floor like a child's toy in splayed pieces of cotton and dust consumes my precious window of sleep seconds like a vulture.

I venture boldly still to get up on time in a few hours and face the world with a genuine smile.

And if I flip you off, world, in traffic.
And if I am a dick to my love who is yet to wake.
And if I forget how lucky I truly am.

I hope you forgive me, world, when I can one day pay it all back in mirth and peace.

That is, when I finally catch up on the Sleep that day by day I feel is being etched away, stolen from the Days I Have Left, muted and spurned into a morphball of direct anger, stored in a chamber called Hate that only my darkest diseased moments know how to access, and which attempt from time to time to vomit into my life all the reasons I tell myself I'm not worthy.

But that is what my head does to me, not an EBA war, not my girl, not you cutting me off in your Mercedes.

And the birds will get up with me, sing good morning, and the sun will remind me that I share this vague darkness with the world in order to affirm the light of the day.

Blessed be the virtues of life which are manifold and beautiful. And with that, sleep does tap me on the shoulder, and my girl is always so so warm.

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