After Midnight

Grazing on left-over finger food, after a horrid dream pulled me from well-deserved sleep, the last few days flash before me. That old actor's nightmare, where you not only don't know your lines, but can't even remember what play you're supposed to be in; you're in your underwear, the lights are very bright, the audience poised to throw vegetables. Almost freezing when I step out to pee and I know the bracing chill has chased sleep, at least for a while. Nothing satisfies. The deep dark and absolute quiet would seem to demand a return to blanket-wrapped warmth, but I know I'd just toss and turn, so I get up and start another fire. The hand you're dealt. Post partum blues. If you're good enough technical support, you disappear, that's the nature of the beast. Language almost makes sense. Belief is a crutch. There are two things, really, what you just finished and the next thing. I take my cue from the natural world, this change in color means I must look to the wood-pile, until spring nothing matters but heat. There's a disconnect here. What if the Circus Show included sawdust and actual dung? It would engage the senses more. It would certainly be a fucking mess, but somehow more correct. I think about that for a while, about what would be authentic, consider the real, dismiss it as a flight of fancy. I need to keep my core temperature within a certain range. Everything else is decoration. Set dressing. What is merely is, an accident of time. Consider your reality, what means anything? Sorry, I lapse peculiar.