Sleep Molding:

With eyes closed, visions form, and sound ceases to be my only form of stimulation. With this new avenue of life opened: body down and comforted by warm arms of waterbed and stuffed-animal strewn blanket above, ears blotted out with white noise from a standing fan in the corner of the room, and my eyes working in crystal clear technicolour shapes behind the blackness of my eyelids. Well. It's not easy to sleep with that kind of an affair around you. All attention is focused upon the visions, the imaginary voices that whisper to me when all real noise has disappeared. And the visions turn to plans. What I should have done today, what I will do tomorrow, what I will do in five years time, what my last days will be like. The things I could have been, could be. Only when I let go of these imitations of reality can I sleep. I must dream with mind active. Eventually all of this fades and changes. Dreams I never imagined begin to work their way into my consciousness. Events not involving me, that I am merely observing from the furthest reaches of outside. A man talks to a man in a meat shop, some town in non-English speaking Europe. Italy, I believe, though I am uncertain. The man carries out a white-papered package, walks into a street. This is what I saw, last night, before I lost the consciousness of the blanket over my face, the pillow lying in the curve of my neck, the soft ripple of waves below the small of my back. And I had no control over this image, it isn't something that would occur to me. That place between waking and sleeping, where the sensation of touch still exists, and you have lost complete control of your thoughts. I used to only rarely feel this state. When I woke up slowly from a dream. Now I must experience it every night, relinquish control of reality tiny bit by tiny bit, a process of hours, to reach the oblivion of sleep. Even then intermittent. With mind waking, untrusting of biological clock, to check the digital one upon my bedstand during every interval of fifteen minutes, every five minutes once five in the morning is reached. Cruel tricks, pulled in an out of dreamtime bliss into cold and bright and reality. I don't live here. All is fantasy.

revoless.
4:21 p.m.
2001-04-17.
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