4am

My sheets a tangled mess, one of which a person could drown in. The thrashing lasted most of the night, losing pillows, gaining traction in the clutter of the comforter to only end up barely covered and cold. 4am came quick in the slowest manor possible. There was no sleep, yet my eyes were shut the entire time. Were there violent dreams? My mouth dry and lips thick from the fan blowing on me. In theory the fan keeps away the night sweats, in theory. All I can remember is reaching for a pillow, trying to prop my body up with it to ease the pressure on my face that was created by an old worn pillow. There is nothing soft about the feather bed, the JLo sheets, the goose feather pillows, nothing soft about my nights. I used to sleep so soundly, like a baby after a full belly, sinking deep into my bed, wrapped in the quilt my mother had sewn. I would reach over and feel the warmth of my wife and pull her in, almost as if loneliness never existed. I used to sleep till 9, 10, 11 o’clock in the morning, knocked out cold from the night before. Smoking myself into a weed coma and waking to the Southern California sun in my early 20’s. Tucked into my bed as a small boy, my Batman and Robin sheets at 50 thread count that exfoliated my already soft skin with my mother kissing me good night and the dreams then, the dreams then filled with wonderment and awe. I mean I’m sure they were, I was young and innocent and so close to god, I had just left it’s side a few years prior.

But as for the last decade I can’t say sleep has been there for me, I can’t say I’ve had continued weeks of security. That’s what good sleep is right, letting go of the day and falling away into your subconscious and then deeper into a nothingness. My life hangs around my neck like a horse’s yoke and I drag my dailies into the night and beyond to what I have found to be my sleep. Which is nothing more than time spent tossing and turning while wrapped in purple sateen sheets. The true measure of good health is the rebound of your cardio, the faster the rebound the healthier your body is. Maybe the true measure of mental health is the ability to sleep, I do not sleep to often. I close my eyes and have violent dreams, I scratch at the surface of sanity, I carry the weight of my knowledge and reality of my choices – which are not really choices but choices by default of not choosing. Either way it is I who is in control of my directions, my moments, my feelings - with nothing to turn to round the edges, to comfort the creeps that pace the corners of my mind.

Now know this is all in theory, this is all made up by my experiences and perception of the present moment. This is me trying to give reason as to why I do not sleep most nights. Maybe it’s me trying to push my self into jumping off that cliff. Maybe I need more exercise, less sugar, maybe it’s cause I’m getting older and it is at this stage in life where sleep becomes a dream of something that once was and when I near my 70’s (if I get to live that long) sleep will come for me with a vengeance and I will be eating dinner at 5 and in bed my 6 to wake at 9 the next day. I do not know, but I do know it is time for work. It is time to see 3 clients today, feed 2 other families and pay random bills. It’s time to be responsible, to be held accountable to others desires, to make money to put in the bank or watch it collect dust in my safe. It is time to take care of business, take care of others and receive the byproduct of financial security which is nothing more than a false happiness.