A kind of sin

The new leaves still rustle outside: this is both a comfort and an annoyance. I think of the sea, of the incessant waves: this comforts and unnerves me. I delight in falling asleep and slowly waking up, and my delight is a kind of sin, which may be why I deny it to myself. But this denial is itself a sin. Sleep itself, the unknown, is what I long for. Sleepers collaborate with you, just as the dead do. As much as the living? You pull me in and out of sleep at your will, just as you pull me in and out of illness. This night seems endless. I listen to my heart. Is it mine? I stand guard over my heart, I lie awake beside myself. Am I dead or alive? I’m half asleep, I enter and exit sleep, or it enters and exits me. My eyelids drop, we begin to cross into one another. Dawn and birdsong come, bringing sleep, and sin becomes grace. Let morning come to itself as I tumble into sleep. But X rolls over and snorts, and I wake myself up.


Comments are closed.