Night time

At night I lie awake for a long time. There’s a moment in half-sleep when a voice tells me, You’re insane to live like this! The voice wakes me and brings me back into wakefulness, out of the sleep I love. I hear the shrieks of the young seagulls learning their calls. X snores lightly on the floor. All is still, yet nothing’s ever still: a mystery. All is silent, yet nothing’s ever silent. I hear the tree’s new leaves and branches rustle outside the window. In a strange room, my own, but with him in it. I try to empty myself for sleep. Think of nothing and sleep. What am I then, when I try to think of nothing? And when I do sleep, what am I? When I sleep I’m closest to you. I tried to sleep and when I couldn’t I learned to scribble like this, I learned to address you without expecting an answer. I tell a lie. You taught me to wait, but I’m a poor student. In a strange room, mine, which isn’t even mine. Sleep is where I never was, which is why I fear it. Sleep: the preliminary death I’m afraid to give myself over to, just as I’m afraid to give myself over to you. The fear that I’ll have to pay for the day’s crimes in sleep, not only mine but X’s, on the other side of time, in night time, dream time, planetary time.


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