Thursday, April 22, 2010

No Sleep

I took this job because I can’t sleep. No, not
that I can’t sleep it’s more that I shouldn’t.
I’m an extremely active sleepwalker;
and, though I’m not completely sure, a potentially
violent one as well. I know where you think
this is going, but I’ve seen Fight Club and
I’m no Tyler Durden. I’m a very
nice girl, with a very nice family,

and a very nice Bachelor’s Degree in
Sociology. I still live about
30 minutes away from my parent’s
house. A social worker by day and a
graveyard shift wage slave by night. I try to
make my hours as full as possible
so that when I do get home I’ll only
have just enough sleep to keep me going.

And I do go: on dates, to the homes of
clients, the occasional working lunch,
and the occasional family dinner.
Despite the normalcy of all these things
I admit that there is something off. Some
issue, some underlying psychological
problem that makes the simplicity of
everything else seem so saccharine. Maybe

it’s just because I never got the chance
to go to war. In comparison, everything
feels less real, less viable somehow.
But there’s more than that, there
must be some reason why noone’s ever
come to find me after…that couple: I couldn’t
tell if they’d been a man and a woman,
a man and a man, a woman and a
woman… My eyes flew open halfway
through whatever I had been doing and
I ran. I felt the wind drying and cooling
my skin, caking my clothes onto my body

until, disgusted, I whipped them off of
me onto the ground, I continued in
the nude and on bare feet. I stopped, vomited,
ran, stopped to catch my breath, vomited again,
and finally made it back home. I passed
out in bed almost as soon as I’d reached
it. I woke up the next morning and nothing
was out of place, I couldn’t even smell

the sick on my breath, what had happened? I
was sure it had been real, but I had no
proof; not that I was upset about it,
I remember thinking before anything
else, “Thank god, that’s one less thing I have to
worry about.” It sickens me to this
day that those were the first words out of my
mouth; such subconscious nonchalance pulls the

left side of my face up into a grimace
when I think about it. I remembered
the street where I’d left my clothes and I went
to find them, they were there, rumpled, but clean
and dry. Everything tells me that it was
all in my head, a walking night terror,
but I don’t believe it, and I don’t trust it.
So I work nights, to make sure that what the

world tells me didn’t happen won’t happen
again. Sometimes I wonder if this insistence
is what really makes me insane, but mostly
I just wonder what is wrong with me?

(I wrote this from an assignment prompt in my poetry workshop. It was supposed to be a monologue by someone who is not you, with an arbitrary syllable count per line, and arbitrary amount of lines per stanza. It went to a surprisingly dark and confusing place. It needs critiquing, perhaps I'll have to comeback to it at some later date)

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