Some days, I crave the flavor of sleep. I can make breakfast
all the while thinking of its textures. I can make lunch for Coop imagining the
moment my brain goes pop into my subconsciousness and I
kick involuntarily.
You know that feeling. I know you know that feeling. That
blip and then you're flying low over water, where you dream in metaphors, where
you dream of sex, where love is in your house, you know, your house.
I dream about my house on a cliff, about to fall off,
crowded with strangers, often when I've had to talk to too many people that
week. I dream in metaphors, that when I wake up, still in the dream, the fear I
had been running from was me all along.
I dream I am eternally in school and will never graduate
until I get it right. Jonathan Livingston Seagull, the ultimate dream of the
last best orgasm of hope-to finally get it right and to be able to fall asleep,
blessed sleep, forever falling, never landing.
That's a whole different view of the abyss. Is it bad that I
don't fear death the way I'm supposed to. I just know there are things I must
accomplish before I die. I need to get Nick out on his own, publish the books I
wrote and the ones I still need to write. There is satisfaction in having
finished the last one. Something clicked into place. Something led me one step
closer to falling, forever, into the abyss.
