i do not sleep. not much, anymore. perhaps i dream for an hour or so but it is not the pure unadulterated sleep that i crave. vivid vivid dreams, interrupted only by something tiny like the fridge clicking over, intruding the darkness with something so noticeable from something so inconsequential. how does that work?
i rise out of bed and look back to where i once lay and think "how did those sheets get like that?" such a mess; misplaced folds and
diagonal halves and
my forehead furrows because i
do not quite understand how something like that could encase my body yet leave no mark. the lines run into each other just like some half energised attempt at abstract post modern art, and since i avoid those pieces at the galleries i avoid it here and there, too.
there is a bruise on my upper arm and it looks like an imploded lotus flower. bare feet and linoleum collide at 4.44am precisely and the moonlight forces jagged shadows through the petals. a bruise; ruptured vessels and discolourations without actually lacerating the self and i've always found them mysterious and possessing emotions and and and
i think this lotus looks angry, with its newly added shadows. surfing injury. i bruise easily i was never concerned even if my mother was, because it was just like cloud watching; amelie rabbit making, finding people and animals and emotions and things in bruises.
i had always searched for a butterfly.
now it is almost 10.44am precisely and i can still feel the dream i had before i found my lotus. i had seen a butterfly, crouched on my index finger so i could feel her body on my skin; a beautifully orange butterfly with perfectly misplaced spots and diagonal half shapes in her wings. and now i examine my unmarked finger, thinking back to her and my forehead furrows because i
do not quite understand how something beautiful like her could have encased my finger
yet leave no mark at all.
spin spin sugar: : I'll catch you :: the get up kids