30
I lay awake, sinking into the typical nightly routine. Thoughts. Scrambled. Different streams that intermingle and grow muddy. Even though my thinking has always been manic, I used to be so disciplined. I could direct my focus. But either my brain doesn’t have the same capacity it used to, or I have much more to try to keep ordered, or it’s a combination of both and all that remains is a tired sort of anarchy. I used to think lots more about my writing. That would override everything else. Narrative would write itself in my head. But that voice is softer now. Or perhaps it’s not as insistent, or zealous.…
29
I wake to the sense I’m sitting up, like I’m shearing free of my physical self, but it doesn’t want to let me go. When I was a kid, I read a lot about parapsychology, about the soul, the spirit, whatever you want to call it, leaving the body during sleep. There were a few times I thought this happened – once, floating next to the ceiling; another time, being propelled toward the wall; and multiple times like my physical body was reverberating. I’ve also repeatedly felt what I’m going through now, like I’m trying to tear myself out of an adhesive cradle, but as much as the possibility exhilarates…
Search