When you're an insomniac every sentence out of your mouth can be like a dream. It forms in your mouth and comes out and by the time you've heard the sound of your own voice, often startling, it's faded and there is little memory that it ever happened. You know there was a sound, but you can't quite place it.
Welcome to my world.
I know I was in the park an hour ago. My feet were moving. It was cold. I can still feel the ache in my knuckles and my face is windburned. More than all that, there is photographic evidence. Without that it might be difficult to tell if I were really ever out of bed. Maybe I dreamed it.
Perhaps I take photos as a record that something actually happened.
My friend and I used to muse, stoned, that maybe the present in which we were sitting and smoking and talking wasn't really happening. That we were dreaming it. It seemed plausible, except for what I didn't want to tell him. The sentence would form in my head and move toward my mouth but I would stop.
"Dude, may our dreams never be this tedious. It's highly unlikely that two people could be having the same fucking boring dream simultaneously."
But now I take pictures.
And right in this moment I am back in my bed, and unconnectedly feeling a sense of dread. Something is about to happen. Something unpleasant. How can I be so certain that something is about to happen when I'm not 100% certain that something that only just happened actually did? Fuck it. Maybe it is connected after all. Everything else seems to be.
-- I walked about 13 miles in total yesterday and managed for a good part of it to sidestep feelings about recent news from across the Atlantic. I came home and played with my dog and did laundry and organized some tax information. Then I sat up a good part of the night occupied with photography websites and poetry and random stupid things. I listened to music.
This morning I came in for a landing, flapping awkwardly like a fat goose into the lake, back to earth to settle into reality. The sun came up and feelings arose with it. It seems awfully fucking bright out there. It's bad enough in here with the curtains drawn and the lights off. Maybe it's the glare from the laptop screen. Or maybe it's just too many hours awake and feeling things.
"You know what we do with feelings," The Crocodile asked me?
"Fucked if I know. What?"
"We feel them."
Okay. We feel them.