I hadn’t brushed my teeth that night. My mind probably felt some haggard disgruntled thing but the shadow of fatigue put it to sleep before it could protest. Sleep that night was a sequence of unbroken oscillations, to pull the body up into the facilities, then return it — then flop it — onto its bed. It was heavy and perhaps it was arguably insomnia-esque but it formed little bother. I slept and awoke before any cognitive processes could take place anyway.
There was gravel in my esophagus.
I felt the gravel rumble slightly the way a car produces sounds of rumble on rutted highways. It stayed and I could recognize its presence so I awoke.
I awoke to a scatter of bed pieces and to a stench that didn’t walk in accord with my slight obstinance so I rummaged through material and began with the mundanity. The mundanity that only so rarely slips passed me, perhaps the way only some falling tree leaves may lay uncounted. And so I tidied and organized, blah blah blah about the details, I suppose. Then I made myself a cup of tea.
Invariably it was unsweetened green tea. But I drenched it in lime juice this morning — perhaps the throaty gravel would rumble a little more. I sat cross legged on my perfectly arranged bed; its sheets detoxified from my home apothecary, resting pacified and undisturbed. Even my body weight did not mark crescents on the linen — I was so lightweight. My body was experiencing an impeccable liberation from hedonistic heaviness. And so it reposed holding warmth between its fingers, whispering soft rhythmic prayers as a piano would emanate in solitude. Each note the same, but each note so inarguably different. I never liked pianos and their eerie ambience. I never understood solitude.
This morning, as the subdued sunshine peered through the tiny window, as my skin absorbed the moisture of the oils I slathered it in, as my emptied stomach rumbled quietly, whispering it was awake, as a breeze smoothly swept over my skin particles enticing a placated shiver, I wasn’t here for a moment. It was so slight, so insignificantly slight that I suppose it may be measured only inside a dream, where swirls of oblivion make sense. But I was up somewhere, gone, almost finally — then gently returned into the lightness. Into where the people live.
I was not sad then. Perhaps there was slight commiseration but I felt a jovial emptiness. Perhaps empty gives off an unjust connotation. A nothingness, that’s it. For once the world wasn’t here, and it was too slight of a moment to be defined as some event — I know there is more, so much more for a heaven before the heaven. For that real type of faith. But this morning was quite nice.
I am lying in the same bed now; night has arrived. The sheets are wrinkled and I can’t exactly distinguish aroma — my body feels like it is recovering from a few punches, feeble. Like those frail pieces of paper that are extracted from a shredder, maybe a little less exaggerated. Years have passed today —
And that is my obnoxious hyperbole for “Hey, I’m getting a cold.”
Ah, we writers are so ridiculous.
So wonderfully ridiculous.