Once again, I am gripped by an irrational fear. A dread of falling asleep for fear that tomorrow will be just like today. A bad day. Lying awake in the dark, I look at her sleeping, docile, vulnerable. Her own irrational fears have a much different effect on her. This morning, she told me of the conversations in her head, imaginary exchanges where she plays both sides of the board, as a chess game. Endlessly she goes back and forth between two personae, extrapolating all possible event chains in a hypothetical to the point where she's telling the imaginary person about the conversations she has in her head with an imaginary person, and in the end she's only talking to herself. But at least she can sleep.
These unwaking hours are the darkest part of the woods of the mind--the easiest place to get lost in thought, paralyzed by the fear of going any further, but similarly crippled by the fear of staying in one place for too long. And thus we go in circles. I think I'm thinking to myself, but someone must be listening, right? I take comfort in the possibility that my thoughts translate into her dreams, giving her the peace of mind in sleep that I myself seek in consciousness. She breathes softly, short little breaths that can be described as either feminine or feline. Even the curve of her body, the way her hands are balled up in front of her gentle face, suggest a cat-like influence. I wonder if that means men are like dogs, splayed out with little regard for the space they occupy, begging for a touch, a glance, a thought. A soft purr from deep within her only confirms my suspicions. Petting her doesn't seem like such a bad idea, but I refrain. A social faux-pas perhaps, petting those who don't know they're an object that begs to petted.
From dogs and cats I wander to the next tree in the forest and I worry: Are we really that different? Dogs and cats? Men and women as two different species, a concept that frightens me to the point of shivers, that the deepest desire can never be truly fulfilled. If we are so inherently different, is it possible to share a soul? The ceiling's glaring indifference seems the appropriate response, the blue glow of the the alarm clock digits casting tiny shadows that reveal the texture of the space, defining the little bumps so sharply I can only conclude that separation is inevitable. No two things can become one. But a soft brush of her hand as she stirs in her sleep reassures me that I'm mistaken. I sigh.
It's useless to fight it, insomnia. One can only hope for the end. Eventually the circles of thought will become so wide (or so tight?) that one cannot help but abandon all hope, and in that resignation to one's prison, one is set free. The last test of the boastful man. Insomnia takes you down a peg. You are nothing without me, says the body to the mind, and the mind responds in kind.
The irrational fear is rooted in a broader tendency to overthink. The big picture is a scary thing to stare at, and I take this fact to heart as the wind howls and makes the room rattle. It's a good night to sleep. But the big picture only enables my avoidance. Am I a big picture person or am I just refusing to acknowledge the pit in my stomach, the lump in my throat, the sense of dread I feel every morning when she gently wakes me for a cup of coffee before my morning commute? Again, cyclically, I return to her. If only I could sleep as she does--mouth agape but breathing through the nose, eyelids flickering with the projections of dreams, withdrawn into a curtained room separated from the light by only a thin but resilient sheath. I consider the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand but I know how much she hates it when I smoke in bed. She's never said anything but, instinctively, I can feel her tension when the blankets bear that stale sour smell, and this small, involuntary bit of fact curbs my enthusiasm for tobacco. I do it for her. Isn't it funny how much of our own happiness revolves around other people's?
I forget sometimes. Nights like these are necessary. When she lies next to me in the darkness, whether facing away from me--the little spoon--or towards me--her small fists close to her chin, waiting for me to place my face close to hers so she can reposition her hands in the usual nooks of my torso like so many bony puzzle pieces--and I close my eyes, I no longer see the dim outline of her profile. As soon as my lids touch the room is set afire, and she is the sole source of light--in the same position as when my eyes are open but radiant and beautiful, resplendent in a way that sunlight could never recreate. I feel her move and the flaming angel in my third eye moves with her. It happens only on nights like these; these windy, cold, sleepless nights; this permeation past my only line of defense from things I see or don't see. She shines like the moon in my imagination, ever present, even in the supine, naked moment between wakefulness and sleep, if sleep ever comes. This tiniest moment in the day is when she is brightest, whether facing away from me, legs bent slightly at the knees, creating a space for me--the big spoon--to fit, or towards me, eyes closed but anticipating my head on the pillow next to hers, face to face, in case in the course of the night one of us should stir and wake the other, that we might share a brief meeting of the lips. It is no wonder then that I never sleep facing away from her. The shining light in my third eye could never keep me from sleeping.
I kiss her forehead, and she stirs. She turns as I lie next to her. A moment passes and I feel a reciprocatory kiss, and I smile.
2 comments:
The dog is above all lucky to share moments with the cat, and to dig through the mind's dark forests. I think the dog realizes this.
It is also hard for the dog who loves other dogs, and has little time at all spend in sleepless contemplation next to another, and to discover such thoughts that both ignite and extinguish forest fires.
i pondered both the inherent masculinity (an object that begs to be petted?) and heterosexuality (i too thought of the dog that loves other dogs) of my story as i was writing it, but sincerely hope that it doesn't prevent any emotions from being stirred in a reader such as yourself.
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