acquainted with the night
Ever read about those experiments where scientists in cloth masks and steel eyes try to press human beings to the very last shred of their sanity?
I'm currently living in one.
My torture mechanism?
Cold, sleepless nights.
I'm trying to get warm. I'm trying to sleep for more than four or five hours. I'm trying to persevere, but I lack the strength against the brutality of a bedroom that was 48 degrees Fahrenheit this morning. One just cannot properly exist in such an environment. I live in a converted attic in a drafty house that just will never warm up. There are no vents in my bedroom, poor if any insulation in the walls at all, and my $60 space heater is powerless against the terror that is 9 degrees Celsius. I used to love my room, and now I can't stand it. My quotations and pictures fall off the walls because the duct tape that before so perfectly adhered now freezes and loses functionality. I'm sick of long underwear, dry skin, dry eyes, the layer of perma-frost that permanently resides on the top layer of my skin---nay, just under the top layer of skin, so that I can't even reach it to melt it, to destroy it, to do away with it.
In the attempt to escape this tortuous cell---this sparkly ice-cavern that used to house incensed, candle-lit typewriter sessions in more relenting times---I have lost the glory of sleep.
If you ask me one word that has described the majority of my life, I might be inclined to say tired at this moment. Everything I do is just to get through the day in hopes of laying down and closing my eyes. This should not be. I should be raging against the dying light, angered that I must wait through the darkness for the opportunity the sun brings. Instead, it is all I can do to abide the daily routine of work, eat, socialize. My heart hurts with the strain of staying alert and caffeinated long enough to rack up the eight hours necessary for validation. My eyes have just about given up. They are permanently squinted and framed by the sickly violet bruise of those horrific bags that crouch underneath. I haven't eaten a nutritious meal in weeks---it's all diet soda, chocolate, and processed energy. The tiredness has made me bitter, hard, calloused, and quick to crank.
I'm going to go sleep on the couch in my living room on my lunch break in a last pitiful attempt to placate this demon.
I'm currently living in one.
My torture mechanism?
Cold, sleepless nights.
I'm trying to get warm. I'm trying to sleep for more than four or five hours. I'm trying to persevere, but I lack the strength against the brutality of a bedroom that was 48 degrees Fahrenheit this morning. One just cannot properly exist in such an environment. I live in a converted attic in a drafty house that just will never warm up. There are no vents in my bedroom, poor if any insulation in the walls at all, and my $60 space heater is powerless against the terror that is 9 degrees Celsius. I used to love my room, and now I can't stand it. My quotations and pictures fall off the walls because the duct tape that before so perfectly adhered now freezes and loses functionality. I'm sick of long underwear, dry skin, dry eyes, the layer of perma-frost that permanently resides on the top layer of my skin---nay, just under the top layer of skin, so that I can't even reach it to melt it, to destroy it, to do away with it.
In the attempt to escape this tortuous cell---this sparkly ice-cavern that used to house incensed, candle-lit typewriter sessions in more relenting times---I have lost the glory of sleep.
If you ask me one word that has described the majority of my life, I might be inclined to say tired at this moment. Everything I do is just to get through the day in hopes of laying down and closing my eyes. This should not be. I should be raging against the dying light, angered that I must wait through the darkness for the opportunity the sun brings. Instead, it is all I can do to abide the daily routine of work, eat, socialize. My heart hurts with the strain of staying alert and caffeinated long enough to rack up the eight hours necessary for validation. My eyes have just about given up. They are permanently squinted and framed by the sickly violet bruise of those horrific bags that crouch underneath. I haven't eaten a nutritious meal in weeks---it's all diet soda, chocolate, and processed energy. The tiredness has made me bitter, hard, calloused, and quick to crank.
I'm going to go sleep on the couch in my living room on my lunch break in a last pitiful attempt to placate this demon.
posted by eekbeat | 8:59 AM
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