The sunshine is still here, just… reflected back. I am the moon tasting of the sun in the nighttime. The past distorts, shines brighter, cuts deeper, gives off radiation so strong my hair falls out. Everything grows back, eventually, but sobriety is a far cry from dawndrunk and I am still waiting for sunrise. I am a starfish cut in half. Half of me takes a plane to New Jersey. Half stays here. I cook half of what I would be cooking, I drive my car half as much. You are out there living the rest of what I should have. You go out. I work. I go out. You look for work. I search for a window back to you. The internet connection is slow and I think of turtles and weddings and a steady income to raise two children on. I wait. See you soon is a drastic overstatement. I will see you. That is all.
My dreams try to find my balance for me.
When I hated my life (for roughly six months last year), my dreams were beautiful and comforting. I slept for something like 13 hours a day. I woke up wishing I could be living what I was dreaming. I can’t give you an example, the only thing that I really remember was being deeply content. Transitioning to daylight was almost unbearable.
Now that I am more or less content with my life, my dreams are frightening and horrible. Last night I had what I consider a classic horror movie dream, involving some sort of maggots laying eggs in my skin. Also I dream about things breaking or malicious intent of someone I love.
When I have a bad day my dreams are better, but since I am mostly happy with my life right now, they are still tinged with a negative aura.
Flashback to a year and a half, when I wasn’t sleeping at all, and something becomes very clear to me. I wasn’t sleeping, so I wasn’t dreaming. All the very horrible and very good had to be expressed during my waking life.
Dreams don’t make sense, and when I stop having them, when I stop sleeping, that madness leaks into real life. The yin yang is no longer separated into neat black and white curves.
Things get jagged.
Of the year I turn thirty-seven. Already the little fists
Of leaves are forming inside the knotted ends of twigs
All over Houston. The cold weather is over. This winter
Again there was no freeze. And tonight it’s very late,
And it’s Sunday, and no cars pass on the big road
By the house, but out there in the night
Some kids about seventeen are doing terrible things
They’ll get by with, and grow out of, and remember
The way they’ll remember what love felt like at first,
Before it stopped being the surest path to ruination,
Before it had done the worst it could and passed away.
And to them it’s as if those who lived this life before them
Moved with the jerky speeded-up gestures of characters
In old-fashioned movies, their expressions intense
And exaggerated; they roll their eyes and loll their tongues
When the heroin hits their blood. It’s as if the beauty
Of evil lives only in the present, where the drop of dope
Clinging to the tip of the stainless steel point
Catches the light like dew; and it doesn’t matter
That the light falls from a streetlamp with a short in it,
And the impatient boy with the syringe in his hand
Will touch the drop back into the spoon
So as not to waste it. It’s his instinct telling him
How much it means to live this now, before he knows
Better, while he still has a chance to survive it.
It’s the moon over his head with its polished horns
That would slip through his skin if he touched them.
It’s the trees leaping to life in his blood, greenness
Unfurling so hard it almost bursts his heart.