The Siren Song of Sleep

There are certain things which must be actively resisted. Then there are many situations which lie right outside of our control which one can do nothing about which are much better left out of active consciousness. The troubling thing, however, are the things which lie right beyond our reach. They are seductive, making themselves known, and then moving away at an alternating pace. They seem to be promising that if only you’d try a bit more, push harder, then you’ll reach into the zone and possess it. These siren goals are all the more insinuatingly devastating because their promises are true. I’ll reach the point of exhaustion and cross into the realm of exuberance, merging with the flow with the creative muse. What I should I have known: Siren songs kill dreamers; Muses are fickle, that is their nature. So you reach the exalted state, only to peak early and come crashing back down amidst the ruins of your tired body. The sickness should’ve been a warning. The pain and tiredness should’ve been a cloud on the horizon. Instead you lay there shattered, the feathers of Daedalus’ wings blanketing your face, as you watch the sun-streak behind Apollo’s chariot carrying your use to burn in the light of day. Morning: 5 A.M. You physically can’t push yourself off the thin mattress on the cold tiles. Your head feels like it’s about to collapse back into the shards of a nightmare of monotonously angry agony. Your legs and fingers are numb. Exhaustion is screwing with your homeostasis; you don’t know if you’re in fever or just too cold. It’s all just numbness, and heaviness, and frustration all rolled into one. The flash of that garnish sun, that whimsical beauty that stabbed you through the back of the eye, is still haunting you. But you know you’re not going to get it. And you know you’re got to get up, get strong black coffee, smoke a cigarette and get to work. What these eyes see here wide-awake, is just another dream, and dreaming wide-awake you’re going to make it reality.