Spiral #1: Awake
by Scott Slemmons
My eyes are wide open. My body is rigid. I am not tired.
And yet I lie in this bed, waiting for sleep that will never come.
I stare at the ceiling, counting plaster bumps, watching grinning faces & dancing bodies form & disappear above me.
I toss & turn, toss & turn, toss & turn. The blanket is tangled as I toss it aside, pull it to my neck, toss it aside again. My eyes are wide open. I close them, almost experimentally, but they see nothing behind the lids worth watching & are soon open again, looking & looking & looking at nothing at all.
Outside, the wind howls like a lost child, rattling the windows & begging to be let in. The weeping wind should soothe me & lull me into the darkness I seek, but it merely enrages me more.
Yes, I am angry. I am angry at the night, for taunting me with the promise of rest when I can have no rest. I am angry at myself, for needing sleep so desperately & for spinning like a top beneath my covers. I am angry at my blankets, my pillow, my bed, the wind, the laughing, tempting darkness. I am angry at my ceiling, for creating those bumpy, capering images that I watch & watch & watch. I am angry at sleep itself, for so cruelly withholding itself from me.
And my anger twists & turns. It morphs to anger & sadness. Have I committed crimes? Were my ancestors evil? Why must I lie awake while the earth sleeps & the wind cries? Why must I be deprived of my dreams & nightmares? Why must I punch at my pillows in frustration?
I have even tried to rise - if I cannot slumber, I should work. I have dishes to wash, letters to write, bookcases to build, infomercials to watch. But my weary body trembles & begs. Rise? How can I rise when I've had no sleep? How can I work so late when my head wavers & quavers with exhaustion? I am defeated & crawl back into bed.
Still my eyes will not shut. Still I toss & turn. The sheets are hot as a fever & wet as a wet cat's hair.
And the wind roars. It shouts through the windows. It shouts that I will not sleep this night, not a wink, not a blink, not a moment of sweet, velvet sleep will be visited upon me. And the wind is glad & laughing & angry at me. "No rest for the wicked!" it shouts. "No rest for the wicked! No rest for the wicked!"
And I cry now. Maybe the wind is right & I must suffer. So I cry & cry. The ceiling makes faces & leers. I cry & the wind rages furiously. There is no rest for the wicked, I cry with the wind. No rest. No rest. No rest.
And then, spent like a rag, I drift away & dream.
© 1999 by Scott Slemmons