June 29, 2014

           One million and one, one million two…I felt as if I was pointlessly, and relentlessly counting the seconds until my final breath (which was odds were, many, many years away for my young, fair, strawberry tinted hair, sky blue eyes full of the inviting mystery of me). I lay in my bed motionless, a body barely even providing a dent as it rises in my bed and fell again as I breathed. It was night, I should’ve been sleepy. Wait, was I? I had forgotten what it felt like to be tired all in the bout of a single innocent night that I felt would last forever. I would’ve continued my counting strategy that usually worked when there was barely any hope left of me, finally falling asleep, but why bother? I knew it would be pointless as I steadily began tracing out every stitch of my deep green quilt, wondering why I had such trouble falling asleep that night.

           It sure was a mystery. I always feel asleep when I was supposed to. It was as easy as breathing for me. It always had been (except for maybe two Christmas eves when I was young and full of anticipation for the brand new sparkly pink bike that was my reward for finally learning how to keep my balance or the new make-up box full of sparkly shades that would finally get me to look like a grown-up woman…that was then this was now, though I would do anything to be the young girl full of dreams once more, even if it was just for one night). I have always wondered what it was like to have a hard time falling asleep, now I know. How does it feel? You may as well ask. It feels dry, like a desert where it never ever rains. It feels putrid like an old, rotten, red (turning vibrantly green) apple. I don’t like it all.

           Was it the sound of silence that I was currently in that was bothering me? Was it some old, record-player memory that was keeping my brain active? Was it nothing? All the answers haunted me, and I haven’t the slightest clue why. Was it the wide expansion of the ocean of nothingness that frightened me? I don’t know. Ask me tomorrow which should be in…just the next second. Oh no. I’m not starting down that long, forbidden pathway of nothingness that leads to nowhere. Counting. I hate counting. (Though I just barely discovered that particular dislike.) Nothing is horribly frightening. Is that why I don’t like it?

           I usually love those particular things that I really shouldn’t. Fear puts dread in me, but it also holds an irresistible excitement within it that I can’t ever say the blunt no to. I think we all are like that, personally. It is what freezes us in the worst possible moments. Sure, it’s horribly quivering of your whole body to stand amidst your fear, but it is also painfully exciting. I stay just to know what will happen next, and I know that I am not alone. Whether they are little 8-9-month-old like me that are timid meeting a new babysitter, closely clinging to their parent so that they can somehow feel the safety that remains with them still…until they leave. Or maybe they happen to be a little older than that, giving a report in class with shaky knees, start a new school with new classmates that they can’t even pretend to know (or notice that they are the only girl with pigtails held together by an old peach rubber-band while Miss Dawson is introducing them in front of the whole, new, intimidating class), take a big exam that they are worried they studied the incorrect notes for, or play in a big Softball game (if you are like me).

           I took a big breath, not at all in timidity, that I wasn’t worried if my gust woke up the whole world on this restful for everyone but me laying in bed with my daytime sky-blue eyes wide open (maybe that was the problem…no, then I would spend every single night of my life like this…too many words) (maybe I was a little worried). This night was killing me. The yellow moon that lay just outside my pale cream window shone awfully bright, maybe that could be it. No, the moon was out every single night, and it never had given me an issue yet. I rolled onto my side, only blinking a few times, quicker than usual. Maybe I could be eager for something under the taunting starlight, never endlessly twinkling like it were easy to stay awake and active all night long. I opened my mouth in a wide yawn (as if it was to capture the moon) (yeah, that would be a fun story). That one didn’t work in forcing me to fall asleep either. BIG surprise. Wait…eating the moon. It was a funny, old hat idea but it still made me laugh, all the way up to a sitting position, quickly grabbing this journal to write that idea down in (along with some other things…Come on! I must write other things if I want to truly fall asleep once this is over). It’s somewhat that one poem written by somebody about making love to the moon, and the beauty of it.

           The moon is a beautiful thing. I’m so glad that it is there near every night to tell me good night, almost as if it is promising that it will gladly be up there, waiting in the sky to tell me good night and good morrow. That reminds me of another story I could write in here about the travesty of the reason why I go to sleep so quickly every night (excluding this one) but we don’t have the time. I must become tired sometime. My mind must be ready for one of these minutes. Wait…nothing. How many seconds is it again till the bright, sunshiny morning? What was it that I was thinking of again that brought a smile to my face? I don’t know. I wonder how many thoughts I can waste away thinking while lying here in my glum little bed with what feels like only a blanket of stars to comfort me? Stop it. I can’t start thinking like that again. How about a poem? (Huh, what do you think journal? That is if you could think.) No, not that poem that I aforementioned. (I’m so tired. Thoughts go away.) Here goes…

Dark, so dark that you can’t think.

Foggy, so foggy that you can’t blink.

Welcome to a place so empty, it can only be filled with nightmares.

The worst ones, whether they are there on dumb dares.

Expression better read nothing, or else.

The unseen, cackling demon will ring his bells.

You can’t see anything, but you know they are all there.

You swear you can hear it, that this might be more than a scare.

Confidently, you shake in your shoes; that is all you can do.

That is what you think, before you see her, adding a glimmer of light to the hue.

A cat, so sleek and so sly.

Her face reads nothing as if that is all that she must pass by.

Whiskers add a mask to her face, with the darkness.

You thought you knew nothing before you saw her ghostly harness.

So mysterious, so plain.

It is as if she is telling you everything, as your eyes slide down her slight mane.

She isn’t. You feel as if you know less.

The slight light did nothing, only showed you a blunt, sneaky feline cress.

Did I mention the moon once in that poem? God, I am so tired. If only I, or the cat, could learn to fall into humble, blissful rest. How many nights have passed since I started writing here? I forgot. I wish I could be in Argentina with Charlie. I know it may be an odd wish, seeing that they are amid the Afghan War, but at least I would be with him. I feel like I just started dating him, but I feel that he is different from the others…I feel like I might wish to stay with him forever, but now that he has been recruited, I know that it is not as likely as it would have been that I will ever see him with his tall body, light green eyes, and wavy, blushing (if it were possible) brown hair again. We never even spent all of one, or more nights together. I could sleep those nights because I knew how safe he was in his bed. We were both somewhat tolerant, I guess. He was a Christian and I was longsuffering if that can be a good thing. I must stop writing. I’m admitting the little-known facts that I prefer to keep to myself (who knows who is going to find this journal someday? Stop reading. Too late.) I need to chill (as the ice cube of death would). Stop it, you innocent-appearing cat. Writing may be boring fun, but it is good to get my emotions out in one way or another. The terror, the fear, the languishing, the bliss.

Is it the morning yet or is the cat still capturing the moon?