Monday, 30 September 2013

The Word Fish

I curl into the foetal position and pull the cover down over my head. 

The bedside lamp doesn't think to turn itself off. Neither does my brain. My head is filled with the swimming of words last seen in the pools of the pages I'd looked at before calling it a day.

I try venturing into sleep but, like so many other things lately, I haven't made the appropriate preparations. The brain won't stop accommodating the words that keep swimming around inside the bowl of my head. Disjointed, the words are forever swimming away to turn back at the margins and keep coming back in no particular order to swim away again. Without a fixed reference point waving like a friendly frond of plankton there is no coherent narrative.

One word becomes another and I keep on trying to follow because I'm making no inroads on the roads into sleep.

Lately, it's all been hard walls I've been trying to get around. But if someone asked me I'd still say the night has been a dreamless, solid oblivion. It's better that way.

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