Maybe sleep isn’t elusive, maybe we elude it:
At 2am, everything is an insight too good to miss.
Daytime, and my eyes are so tired they’re sliding off objects.
For a moment, 3D becomes 2D, planar world.
I’ve got cobalt pixels, tachypsychia, and the airport hush.
Aircon sounds like an orchestra tuning. A cistern filling is like conversation.
The fridge compressor is choral evensong.
My reflexes, conversations, are just macros.
An event-packing routine takes care of the field admin.
I’m a figment of my own imagination, a double-entry, an accounting shorthand.
I’m dying on my feet here, but aren’t we all.
And then, there’s that speed-bump narcolepsy.
Seventy pairs of pastoral figures are toiling, dancing, love-making, on a verdant slope.
In an instant, I know what each of them is doing.
They coalesce into two groups, drain swirl to solid shapes.
Half-awake, I see R’s face in the shapes of pillows.
Hypnogogia throws at me all possible sizes, and orientations, of his face and features.
A greyscale collage.
Picture a moonlit mackerel sky of tessellated faces.
R has the violet eyes of cloud shadows on spring seas.
My Huckleberry friend.
I wake dreaming a head rush, facedown in the pillow.
The black hum, and that present/not-present timeslip.
An 8-bit black-and-white death’s head flashes a clichéd warning.
It’s the best sort.
Puke your big black Jabberwocky onto the kitchen floor: turns out it’s a white rabbit, with pink eyes.
Only now am I levelling up for the real boss fight, slash reconciliation,
And oddly, liberatingly, it’s about nothing I expected.