i'm stuck like this,
too lazy to do anything.
people move before my eyes,
and i yearn to be like them,
accomplishing things and venturing about in the world
but i don't want to.
(more) i cling to childhood, which is in reality my laziness.
maybe one day i'll wake up.(less)
They tell me I sleep too much.
Some days, I will give them that. Some days I do, I close my eyes and die until 12 hours later some part of my brain lights up and calls me back to life. But some days I lie. They don't know(more) that I have hardly slept at all; I have laid awake in bed at 4am and been too scared to sleep. Or too tired to sleep. Or too restless to sleep, I don't know.
I am half-asleep in the waking hours, anyhow. I go through my routine and I do not deviate from it because it seems like too much effort to try to do anything more. Not a step too far, not a smile extra, not a word further.
I go home and lie in bed. If I am lucky, I sleep. If I am particularly lucky, I do not dream.
"You sleep too much," they say.
If only they knew. All I want is to wake up.
Man-hating pancakes, served with whipped cream and strawberry syrup, the kind that goes down sticky, sweet, and almost bloody but not quite. My roommate carved into her stack, I performed surgery on mine. We swap, like Victor Frakenstein. Yours for mine.
It's eleven-twent(more)y and she orders an iced coffee that we split, which goes down smooth and taunting.
"How are we gonna be able to fall asleep?"
Who knows? Who cares?
Scrambled eggs split cleanly between the two of us, and we rip the sausage in half before eating it.
Man-hating pancakes and a side of "I can't believe he did that," served up piping hot. You can tell a boy why he was being a creep, but you can't guarantee his pancakes were life changing ones. Life reevaluating ones.
Check yourself crepes, $6.75, smothered in blueberries.
I slam the cover open and stare. My eyes are burning, but I keep looking until they adjust and see the green, far beneath. It's beautiful.
"Now it will be home."
It's Catherine. That's right. I remember. It's home. A place to be happy. It will be safe?
"Yes. Don't forget your box. You left it in the seat flap."
That's right. I open the flap. Stuck in between Skymall and What-to-do-in-an-Emergency is the thin black box. In the thin black box is the Mary's necklace. In the necklace is nothing, other than some sort of self-identity I have left.
"Excuse me Mr.Baker, please bring your seat to the upright position for landing." Spoken like a true stewardess, with the false smile, false breasts and the false words, there to distract you from the idea that you are in a metal coffin 1000s of feet above land. How did she know my name? Is that a new airline practice?
"You're a regular, Mr.Baker. Even the pilot knows your name," says the stewardess, with the long pink fingernails and the name-tag that says Lily. That's not her real name.
I've never been to South Africa though.
"No, you've never made it. At least not yet." She leaves promptly. The seatbelt sign goes flash. The microphone says that the descent will have some turbulence, so please remain seated.
Catherine looks at me coolly. Her hair is dark, like her suit. I look out the window again. The ground's getting closer. Here, I will start a new life. A happy one.
The plane starts shaking. Little plastic masks fall from the ceiling. It reminds me of h-(less)
the fucking alarm won't stop.
can't it just UNDERSTAND that you want a little bit more sleep?
oh wait, of course it can't, it's an inanimate object.
(more) i swear, if it doesn't stop, i'm gonna THOR HAMMER SMASH IT TO A MILLION PIECES.
wait i'm not thor. damn.
i groan, turn on my back, and get up.
time for another day at the hell hole called school.
-an excerpt from "the life and times of a perpetually misunderstood teenager"(less)
"Mom, Mom, wake up, wake up, please, Mom. Mom. MOM!" She was sobbing, tears streaking down her face, leaving paths of clean skin amidst the dirt.
"Mom, please! Wake up! MOM!" Her arms were pumping, forcing her mother's chest up and down and up and down but still sh(more)e felt no heartbeat and her arms were getting tired.
"MOM!" she screamed, and bent down, breathing into her, hoping that she would feel the return of breath.
"WAKE UP! MOM! YOU HAVE TO WAKE UP!" She began to shake her then, abandoning her first-aid practice and resorting to basic instincts that yelled at her to shake what will not wake.
She tried for a few more minutes, but still her mother did not rouse. She was beginning to get cold, too. What little hope there was in the girl's chest sputtered and died, and tears began to flow faster and faster until she couldn't see anything other than a kaleidoscope of colors.
The girl collapsed over her mother's body, sobbing and screaming, begging and pleading to someone that would never hear again, to someone she would never talk to again, to someone that was gone. To someone that had chosen to leave her daughter behind because she wasn't able to deal with life anymore.(less)
Her tiny body is very still. Even in the quiet of room uninhabited except by my anxious ears she makes no noise. Wrappings of blankets and folds of clothing-just a bit too big for her minuscule frame-drown any slight movements.
(more) And the question inevitably begins to loiter in the doorway of the mind. Unobtrusive at first, merely a suggestion. Surely its slight urgency is just a prodding of paranoia. Nothing to give any serious credence to. But thoughts of unpracticed, malfunctioning little lungs will assert themselves with mounting demands for attention. Concentration is impossible. The worst is so unlikely, but how could reparation be made for desultory neglect in such a moment?
Here the dam breaks and the question drives me to stir her agonizingly wrought slumber-precious because it is such a delicate difficult thing- whispering compulsively, "Is she breathing?!".
Yet I am careful, because I very much do not want her to wake up. (less)
A mixture of voices resound through my skull. So loud. I want to kick and writhe and scream at all of them to shut up. I want to sleep peacefully.
Forget it. I'm leaving you behind.
A six-year old girl leaned over the body that once belonged to her older brother. "Wake up," she called softly. Even though she was battered and bruised, she was too young to understand.
The street around them was stained in a bright red. Just moments before, the once colorful world was transformed into a roaring, crimson nightmare.
The little girl sat oblivious as people lay in the streets screaming in pain, or silent as stone. She wanted her brother to take her to the candy store, as he had been until he suddenly pushed her to the ground, his body on top of hers. She had struggled under his iron grip and weight until she could suddenly crawl out from underneath him. She figured he had fallen asleep. His eyes were closed, mouth half open; the face of a sleeper. He was even drooling, though his drool was a weird color.
"Big bro, wake up." The girl called on and on, to no response.
It's midnight, tick beats the metal hands, whining, of my grandfather clock, never owned by my grandfather. An old man with a tawny white beard, suspenders and wool socks. He didn't care much for time, so I remember.
(more) The encrusted dawn isn't too far off - a melange of orange beauty, soaring beyond and life eyes open.
It's time for me to sleep. I'll wake up when it's time.
Wake up when it's time, before or after. There never is so much precision as before and after. It's just bigger and, bigger, is always better.
Good night, I say, tomorrow I wake up. (less)