Jul 2014
The longest a human being has ever stayed awake is 264.4 hours, or 11 days and 24 minutes. A study from Harvard Medical School shows that people who are sleep deprived may not realize that they are sleep deprived. Lack of sleep makes people more sensitive to pain. Sleep deprivation leads to paranoid and delusional thoughts. I am not sleep deprived until you confirm it. The monster waiting at my front door does not exist until it has killed. I am not real until you say that I am real.
Yesterday, I almost skipped my shift volunteering at the library because of the hell hound waiting on my front lawn. There was a chain connecting my lungs and its teeth, my palms and its claws, my brain and its beady, yellow eyes-- but the door to my room was steel and my heroes were there to guard it. Next to the door I piled books and a box set of compassion and bound the lock with love and sacrifice. My palms were pale and clammy and I imagined them all standing behind me and breaking the chains-- blowing it away with a kiss and a bang.
If my younger self could see me now.
If mother could hear me cry.
If my best friend could see my panic if the girl who broke my heart could revel in my weakness if my parents-- 16 years ago, with a new baby girl-- could grasp the knowledge that their child would be sleep deprived, devoid of certainty, hurt way on the inside and barren of acceptance for herself-- she gave it all away.
Fading away is less peaceful than you might think. I've been sleeping too lightly and giving too deeply and even though my thighs are toned from years of dancing and my feet are strong from months of overuse, I am not a physical being. I am a thought, a passing whim, a sprinkle of dust on a warm summer wind. I am certain only of my impermanence, but if I haven't been sleeping, certainty is nothing more than a short-lived sentiment capable only of fairy dust with a knack for obstruction. I may be fading away while creating a juxtaposition of reality-- my muscles becoming more dependable and my fingers pounding away on the chains harder than ever while my mind becomes less and less frequent. Feet striking the ground with an assurance unlike the persistent presence of vertigo in my bones-- I am not gone until you say that I am gone.
Yesterday, I almost skipped my shift volunteering at the library because of the hell hound waiting on my front lawn. There was a chain connecting my lungs and its teeth, my palms and its claws, my brain and its beady, yellow eyes-- but the door to my room was steel and my heroes were there to guard it. Next to the door I piled books and a box set of compassion and bound the lock with love and sacrifice. My palms were pale and clammy and I imagined them all standing behind me and breaking the chains-- blowing it away with a kiss and a bang.
If my younger self could see me now.
If mother could hear me cry.
If my best friend could see my panic if the girl who broke my heart could revel in my weakness if my parents-- 16 years ago, with a new baby girl-- could grasp the knowledge that their child would be sleep deprived, devoid of certainty, hurt way on the inside and barren of acceptance for herself-- she gave it all away.
Fading away is less peaceful than you might think. I've been sleeping too lightly and giving too deeply and even though my thighs are toned from years of dancing and my feet are strong from months of overuse, I am not a physical being. I am a thought, a passing whim, a sprinkle of dust on a warm summer wind. I am certain only of my impermanence, but if I haven't been sleeping, certainty is nothing more than a short-lived sentiment capable only of fairy dust with a knack for obstruction. I may be fading away while creating a juxtaposition of reality-- my muscles becoming more dependable and my fingers pounding away on the chains harder than ever while my mind becomes less and less frequent. Feet striking the ground with an assurance unlike the persistent presence of vertigo in my bones-- I am not gone until you say that I am gone.
