A weight is attached to each of my lashes, while my optic nerves remain all too alert. Everything is connected to the fucking brain.

My eyes drift to my bed, littered with the discarded debris from an active day: My purse and sweater, some beads acquired at a street fair, a shopping bag full of new and necessary items. Those objects sleep, remembering the friendly doings of a day now dead. And the night remains.

My body knows it is time to sleep.

My brain counters, Not yet. You might miss something.

Miss what? An unexpected blurp in the white-noise of my air conditioner? A spontaneous burst of energy exhibited by my cat, as he dashes from one pole of my apartment to another? A late-breaking update brought to me by an entertainment news program? What is J. Lo up to these days?

I need an event. An astroid. An invasion. An invitation. A phone call. Something. Then, I can sleep.

Sometimes I am so in love with this spinning absence and the possibility indicated by its emptiness. Other times, the waiting exhausts me.

Each sunset ends in defeat, the sea of sky being obscured by the hysterical inky outburst of darkness. A number of urban dwellers long for the visibility of stars as much as I do. Most of those folks are asleep. The night remains.

I remember late evenings in the country, after long days of labor followed by the almost obligatory release of play. I would look at the umbrella of constellations above me and marvel over the depth of the cosmos. Some stars struck immediately, like a punch in the face. Others lingered behind, and I wondered whether their wan pallor was due to age, youth, or simple distance. Here, I see only the moon and the occasional aircraft. Pardon me, but I miss the confused adolescent acne of spattered stars.

I fight sleep even while it encloses me in its fist. It suffocates me and pulls me downward, paying no heed to my mute protestations of "Not yet." When darkness is all that approaches me during my stubborn vigil, I admit defeat.

At the end of the day, whether we prolong that day with the expectation of something to come, or rush it to conclusion, knowing that it begins and ends within the blessed parentheses of a lover's arms, we all must sleep.

Good night, then.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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