Story - "Summer"
Aug. 11th, 2004 06:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
m31andyHmm, not posting much. Mind you, there's not much to tell. Still obsessed, still avoiding work, still tired. Sigh.
So, story time. Hmm.
Summer
For three months of the year, I cannot sleep.
Okay, that's not strictly true. I do sleep, but in thirty minute bursts. Each episode is coloured with white pillowcases and red numbers, dancing slowly in a time-delayed waltz.
It's not what I would call refreshing.
From the beginning of July, when the joy of a new-minted summer begins to wane into familiarity and contempt, to the first signs of autumn splendour my dreams are tinted red with blood and white of bone.
I don't know what to do.
Things do bring respite. Alcohol makes me forget the hours, but brings its revenge in morning waking. Pills numb the body, but allow the mind to wander free. Meditation irritates and medication frustrates. Those brief minutes allowed bring dreams of unparalleled intensity. They reflect whatever I have done to numb the brain into accepting respite. Three years ago I was "Avada Kedavra'd" into oblivion by everyone from Voldemort to my dog, Lucy. Two years ago I battled vampires and werewolves. Last year I shared underground hovels with dwarves, waiting for the castle walls to be breached. This year I've lain on an autopsy table while Doc. Robbins takes my liver temperature with a meat thermometer.
It's not pleasant.
There is no solution. I watch the clock tick over from 11pm to 6am in five-minute intervals. I delay the inevitable with books and videos, only to sigh at 4am, confused and confounded. I should get a diversion, but my fingers are too clumsy to type, my brain is too unfocused to read and my eyes too sensitive to see.
I am so tired.
So I wait.
Things will be different, come autumn. The nights will draw in; the leaves will fall from the trees. Greens will transform into reds and golds. The fiery red of the sun will melt into pale yellow. The blue of the summer sky will fade into the white and grey of storm clouds. The long, hot, sultry nights will metamorphose into something cooler, more bearable. The chill of the coming winter will leach the joy from the sun-worshipping inhabitants of this green and pleasant land. Disappointment will fill this Isle from north to south as the halcyon days of summer are finally trumped by the dark and empty days of winter.
And, finally, I will sleep.
So, story time. Hmm.
Summer
For three months of the year, I cannot sleep.
Okay, that's not strictly true. I do sleep, but in thirty minute bursts. Each episode is coloured with white pillowcases and red numbers, dancing slowly in a time-delayed waltz.
It's not what I would call refreshing.
From the beginning of July, when the joy of a new-minted summer begins to wane into familiarity and contempt, to the first signs of autumn splendour my dreams are tinted red with blood and white of bone.
I don't know what to do.
Things do bring respite. Alcohol makes me forget the hours, but brings its revenge in morning waking. Pills numb the body, but allow the mind to wander free. Meditation irritates and medication frustrates. Those brief minutes allowed bring dreams of unparalleled intensity. They reflect whatever I have done to numb the brain into accepting respite. Three years ago I was "Avada Kedavra'd" into oblivion by everyone from Voldemort to my dog, Lucy. Two years ago I battled vampires and werewolves. Last year I shared underground hovels with dwarves, waiting for the castle walls to be breached. This year I've lain on an autopsy table while Doc. Robbins takes my liver temperature with a meat thermometer.
It's not pleasant.
There is no solution. I watch the clock tick over from 11pm to 6am in five-minute intervals. I delay the inevitable with books and videos, only to sigh at 4am, confused and confounded. I should get a diversion, but my fingers are too clumsy to type, my brain is too unfocused to read and my eyes too sensitive to see.
I am so tired.
So I wait.
Things will be different, come autumn. The nights will draw in; the leaves will fall from the trees. Greens will transform into reds and golds. The fiery red of the sun will melt into pale yellow. The blue of the summer sky will fade into the white and grey of storm clouds. The long, hot, sultry nights will metamorphose into something cooler, more bearable. The chill of the coming winter will leach the joy from the sun-worshipping inhabitants of this green and pleasant land. Disappointment will fill this Isle from north to south as the halcyon days of summer are finally trumped by the dark and empty days of winter.
And, finally, I will sleep.
