Take for example last night, when I fell asleep after dinner and woke up two hours after. During these hours of zombie-like insomnia, coffee usually has the opposite effect on me. So I drank a cup.
But instead of lulling me to dreams, my bedside beverage planted my feet on the parquet. Forcing me to sit up.
Watched horror movies while trying to finish a new necklace (also in red and blue). The Exorcism of Emily Rose followed by The Haunting right through the witching hour.
When I couldn’t add any more beads, I though caffeine had finished its business. But as I lay on my bed, I thought to do something better.
I revisited a poetry series I started two years ago (I think). Suddenly, the dried husks of my thoughts became hollow reeds. Verse once again played through me as through a woodwind.
Translated in English, the poetry set would read “Body of Light”. It started with stanzas about the eyes and cheeks, before proceeding to metaphors you could hardly hear, much less speak.
I thought the series would never end, proceeding from forehead then the neck. But then, as I rounded up that last line, it was as if I was running out of breath.
Was it out of relief? Or did a new voice, a new poem, want to be heard?
Ah, the double-sided face of theatre. The pain and ecstasy of knowing both joy and despair.
The honesty and intimacy of our fixations.
I offer no answers, of course. Even to any of my own rhetorical questions.
I can only cross my arms and hope to survive whatever cold may come my way.
To peek through the gaps of darkness.
As through alternating stripes. The endless rows of days.
What can we do but to celebrate each?