My Enemy the Sun, Part II

Recollections from The Month of Sleep

Photo by kaluci on Unsplash

The birds are starting to chirp outside my window. I've only just laid down to sleep. I roll over in disgust, turning my back on the dawn attempting to break through the space between my heavy curtains.

Everything has been coming slowly these last few weeks. I've been sleeping sometimes 20 hours in a day, crawling into bed to rest each hour the sun is out. I was sick but now I'm not. My computer was acting up so I took it in and they confiscated it for repair, 5-7 days they said. Like the universe stopped me too. My body stopped me and then my mind and spirit stopped me and then my machine stopped me. So I am stopped. Ish. 

And why did these things stop me? Why now, was I too blindly charging forward?

I have simultaneous senses of this time and the deep next; I see and feel myself after, looking back on now, the before. I see the why, the necessity, the reason. This is preparation. Setting. ? Do I really wonder or do I really know? I weep when I verbalize these things out loud to myself. I kneel by my bed ask big questions. Aloud. And sometimes it is to God and sometimes I think it's to my future me who is there and isn't there. Watching, seeing, smiling, remembering.

I am in all of it at once. Sometimes I hear things happening in my head and I don't know if it's things that are still to come or just fantasy. Sometimes I feel so full with space. Sometimes I am the sum of all times.

I can't bear to be awake in the light. I shut my eyes to the questions, the confusion, the day. The darkness inside my eyelids is quiet. My bedsheet cocoon respite from the limbo.

Sometimes I wake up early unexpectedly and there is stillness and sureness inside my belly. Sometimes I panic when I realize I am standing awake in the light.

"My Enemy the Sun" is an ongoing series. Read the first installment.