Inside a Cockroah’s Dream

sleeping-pills

These walls are a paradox, an assimilation of thin sheetrock painted a calming robin egg’s blue that filters the neighbor’s voice introducing it as a muffle, still the snoring is enough to fasten my eyes open with insomnia’s grip, taunting the notion that proper posture might ensure sleep. So, I crinkle to fetal and snuggle in the covers like it’s placenta contained inside a womb, birthing sheep that recycle at a hundred…leaping stock somehow interacts with exhaustion (not sure of the catalyst that created this myth) but I’d gladly study the circumference of a sheep’s asshole if it meant proper rest.
I once considered free will the basis for all decisions, but having to be conscious of every snicker seems a chore and to propose the opposite of consciousness, that of blessed slumber, if free will is the outset then why does sleep elude me? If the choice is mine and I choose to enter REM, why do I indulge the neighbor’s wheeze as if I have no choice? In lieu of this choice what do I have? I have the option to probe the outset and study its features. Thus, I enter the sheep’s asshole every night on a whim. Exploring the intestines hoping that the quiet turns represent a lullaby and that as I veer into the stomach I might be cradled by its rocking acid. The burns recognized as nothing more than a hazard of dreamland, like a junky displaying their track marks because they find them aesthetically pleasing. Granted this state of insomnia encourages new friendships with creatures I once despised. In the throes of midnight influence I gazed at my television entranced by the fake smiles and laugh track featured in an infomercial. As the blonde-haired pasty faced female host turned on the magical blender a cockroach dashed across the screen. I blinked twice to be sure of my consciousness and during the flutter the cockroach dashed again. I rolled off the sofa and crawled on all fours toward the insect. It sat motionless on the screen, paralyzed by either the television’s glow or the pizzazz of fake people selling magical blenders. I stretched my index finger and placed it near the cockroach’s head. Its antenna grazed my fingernail inducing a tickle, it then slithered from the smoothness of keratin down the crackle of my flesh. Within seconds it positioned on my erect finger and I carried it slowly to the sofa. We sat and watched the infomercial till sunrise and continued this habit every night for a month. One Friday night it never showed. I felt a sadness like a pet had died. In the end, I realized the only eternal company I’d have at night would be a snore echoing from an invisible neighbor. I say hello to it. I attempt to say goodnight to it. I fear we’ll continue our mundane banter until the forever sleep, but for right now forever feels like a night and tomorrow feels like a dream.

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