There is a room in the black space beyond the glow of the computer screen. I can't see it, but I know it is there.
I've been lying awake. Unable to go to sleep. Too much nothing floating around in there that I might be able to get out here, that could become something. Or maybe not.
The nights are getting warmer, and I am shifting back and forth on top of these heated sheets, too warm in these pajama bottoms, too warm on this bed, in this stuffy room. Time to turn on the fan.
Cool air now, but it can't blow away these other things. This heaviness, this ache. Why do these woes cause this ache? Why do our bodies work this way? I thought pain was a diagnostic. I don't need to diagnose these woes. I know what they are. Why do we have to lie around with hurting chests? Squirming on these hot, uncomfortable sheets like worms?
My melancholy is bleeding into the room now, wherever I cast my gaze. I am extending myself out into space, or my chest anyway. I'm pouring it all into the lamp fixture above. The more I look at the lamp, the more it pours out, into the room, into the lamp. But I'll never run out of stuff to pour. And the lamp can hold all I have to pour. It gazes back, and pours back what I gave it.
It is just the hum of the fan now. Two fans. One above, one in the computer. Two hums, layered over one another, creating the same soft background noise. The ceiling fan is on low. If it was on high or even medium it would be making the most terrible racket, like it wanted to tear itself from the ceiling and throw itself upon me and slap me with its terrible wooden blades until it ran out of its kinetic spin. Running water. Someone must have used the restroom just now. Now there are three layered sounds. Two hums and one dull roar. The roar has shut off now.
I think I am thinking enough nonsense now to be able to go to sleep. Nonsense is a little more soft and doesn't irritate the attention as much, while the more bothersome sense or meaning is slightly more edged or serrated and irritates the attention and keeps one awake until they figure out a way to sand of its edges, maybe with a little writing or some reading or music or anything else that can do such things.
Heat extentia nonsense and all the like. Thanks.
