As the subtle waves of sleepy start to lap at my shore I feel my nails tighten on my arms as I begin the attempt to hold myself together. Relaxation is heavy eyelids and limbs of lead. Enjoying this is spine sinking into pelvis into knees into ankles through the floor.
Nights become determinedly introverted to conserve scraps of awake, to grab moments like fireflies from air. Eat them like secrets.
Existing in between the place of awake and sleep does not make you a manic pixie dream elf, does not make you ethereal, just means you get weird looks when you’ve been staring into space and someone’s face gets in the way. You don’t float about life in a bed made of clouds, you scrape further and further into the ground until you’re ploughing through it like a tractor just to have a shower.
Word vomit half thoughts and mildly considered notions. I’m concluding thoughts that I can’t remember the beginning of.
Walls of sound hits me and my knees shake with pleasure, fear, and one of the epsy or plexy symptoms that accompany emotions. Lights, sound, and giddy happiness make me swoon a little. My senses are overwhelmed. I lose a second or two in which my body goes rigid as my brain tries to cope with it all. The only other time I feel this is when he kisses me and I forget to breath.
Every time I’ve answered “how are you?” With “good” this week I’ve been a liar.
Internal Monologues 