A Sinking Foundation

I can’t sleep. I’ve tried everything to keep these three letters from sinking in. From being my reality. I adjusted the thermostat. Up two degrees. Down three. I disturbed the silence until I ended up with sonic dissonance. The whirring of a boxed fan accompanied by the strings of classical music. Outside my window, the inky sky bleeds into the faintest of blues. I curl into the fetal position. I am a babe in womb, a caterpillar in cocoon. The rhythmic words lull me into semiconsciousness. A shiver runs down my spine and my body becomes unfurled. I’m being haunted. Not by ghosts, nor by words of a childhood bully, not even by anxieties of the impending work week, rather by the tiniest of enemies that has me by the neck. I tiptoe to the drawer and slip on a night shirt sans itchy tag.

 Let’s try this again. I stretch out on my back with arms crossed at my chest like Egyptian royalty. The moments tick by brutally…eternally. The room is a catacomb, its air thick and arid. Opening one eye, I spot the shadowy silhouettes of my television and cell phone, treasures just out of reach. Flipping onto my stomach, I become a surfer paddling out to sea. Azure bliss. Azure bliss. Surely something is amiss. Suddenly, I remember I can’t swim. My body goes rigid and I fall off my board. Spewing water from my lungs, my coughing fills the room. I can’t swim. These three words, having always been the reality of so many people like me, replay on a constant reel.  

Conceding that it's uncouth to critique social injustice at such an hour, I turn my attention to more urgent matters. I flail my arms and float parallel to the shore. My breathing is ragged. Finally, I’m able to pull myself to solid ground. Whether it be the stiff mattress beneath my body, or the pathway for meandering thoughts, I cannot deny the necessity of a firm foundation. We can attribute the lack of foundation for the shortcomings of counted sheep. Our sheep could just as easily be clearing a hurdle in a pasture as they could be bouncing in the sky in vain, searching for a singular cloud, as fluffy and perfect as their own coat.   

I’ll fortify my foundation now and reap the rewards later. The darkness in my bedroom dissipates, giving birth to a glacial forest. White masses float towards their divine purpose, to explore new territories and save mankind from themselves. 

My mind’s eye steps back, in awe of my creation. There’s something innately appealing about ice. It is the embodiment of danger and beauty. When dining at fine establishments, I needn’t be reminded to keep my hand off the table. However, that hand may need to be thwarted from embarking on an ice fishing excursion. When the last few cubes clink away in the glass, there’s a chance of getting lucky and a chance of getting smacked in the face. Blame it on anemia, but I like those odds. Did I take my iron pill today, or rather yesterday? Note to the wise: Be sure to craft a foundation that does not induce salivation. 

I turn over my dampened pillow to the cool side. If only it were always so easy to summon a fresh start. We wish for such a thing in our lives without ever truly understanding the scope of it. If we were architects moments ago, laying a foundation, surely we can now assume the role of archaeologists, unearthing the bare bones of an age-old aspiration. Consider how quickly, if granted a do over, one would be boxed in by genetics. Different dimensions, but a box all the same. From the first spoken word, one’s constricted vocal cords would undermine the potential to become a great singer. One’s timidity would cause shrinking where others stood taller. One’s natural rigidity would exile them from the bendy world of gymnasts and ballerinas. Poor eyesight would put a person at the mercy of peers or the fashion of the times, for inevitably, wearing glasses warrants sophistication or teasing in any generation. Take heart! We’ve only scratched the surface of the nature of the beast.     

I dig the heels of my hands into the bed and prop myself up. I turn on the bedside lamp and reach for my chapter book. My muscles feel taut and shaky. Failing at any task for hours on end causes strain. Allowing my eyes to adjust to the light, I peel back the spine, gripping a stack of pages in my left hand. The pages are weightless in my right hand. Any day now. Any day. I rest a palm on my belly. I’m struck by the image of a pregnant woman. The length of her gestation period is marked by the amount of time it takes her to read a single book. Her imagination and perspiration intertwine at the climax of the story, sparking the very essence of life. The vitality of her baby is dependent upon the love she pours into the story’s pages. 

 I’m struck by the image of an old man in a recliner with his finger on the final page of his favorite novel. He breathes his last breath and on his face, a look of relief. Finishing a book is akin to parting ways with the dearest of friends. 

I get out of bed and drop to my knees. Folding both hands, I bow my heavy head. If we have been both architects and archaeologists, builders and excavators, it comes a time when we must attempt to be archangels. I can be good. I can be good. How luxurious it is to simply be good. Surely, heaven makes for the firmest of foundations. 

Outside my window, the singsong of a bird reaches my ears. I can’t help but wonder if his song comes from the early spoils or if he has finally freed himself from the hollow of the tree, and is humbly singing his praises to the rays in the horizon.