Hello. It’s colder than normal and my eyes are still squinted ‘cos I sleep to avoid living. Postpone existence ‘til my eventual rise; an upsetting & assaulting and really fucking repetitive experience. That he makes easier.
I’m writing this instead of curling deeper into him, pulling our bodies together tight. Wishing I could absorb into him. Live behind his ribcage, peer through the spaces between. No matter how hard I try, it won’t work. A fact that weighs too heavy, some mornings. Like this one. Laid on my back, laptop supported by bent knees with a grounding ache between my legs—a result of telling him “I don’t wanna think. Make us die a little.”
This dutiful listener; he’s at my side. Continuing his reconstruction of my poorly-maintained flesh noticed under his usual gaze upon my resting figure, the pull of his admiration tugging me out of sleep. Beckoned towards him. And life. Always surrounding him, large & bright like a halo, threatening to take him from me. But it can’t, right now. I’m simply Here, with him, and his careful touch for the work of loving me. Aww, how cute.
I wonder how the morning’s are, for you? How you utilise sleep, if not just for rest?
- Particularly within a society of capital, turning morning into punishment.
- Warping the sun into unspoken expectancy through association.
- Daylight into a time of efficient productivity at optimal rates for equally optimal results. Or something word-y and professional.
- Night is when you’re allowed to “slack off.” To be unreachable. To sleep.
- And sleep is only justified when you’ve worked hard enough.
It’s all pretty hellish here, isn’t it? Every reason to find every way to die a little every night. And still awake unrested.
