tuesday of my being this.

I lay down again on top of the bunk bed, and watched the light filter in through the blue curtain of our room. I was waiting for the light to fade, for the windows to turn dark again, waiting for the late afternoon to die and shrivel into evening. There was still some time yet, and blue yet was the light coming in and I lay there watching and knew that my mind was not there with me. The occasional breeze coming in and out as it alternately lifted the curtain and pressed it again on the window made it appear like it was breathing even if rather irregularly, as if in gasps, stealing breaths when it can; like some morbid mockery of suffocation.

It is the time of the sun again and her rage is here, becoming a constant inescapable truth every midmorning when I would just be able to sleep. I wish for rain, even with all the accompanying memories that it carries with it, even if it will remind also like a constant inescapable truth but always better the coldness than the heat. Not that the rain would also help with my sleep, it will also allow me a broader view of my mind. The past days I sleep no longer than three hours before I find myself staring, and wide awake, remembering dreams before they pale away to my first thoughts being born upon waking. I am not even surprised of the central theme that these thoughts have, they are always the same. They are the same as the last thought I have before I slip away into uneasy sleep. My sleep pattern is approximating the way I slept some years ago.

The blue has just become pronounced and there are fringes of darkness already encroaching outside the window. I silently go down the bunk bed and turn off the fan, silently wondering again if being busy would be some sort of escape, an unconventional therapy, a vent for the excesses of the mind but I know that once I get there, I would start wondering again if it would have been better to stay here in the apartment and just alternately write and space out, then look out of the front door, craving for rain.