And now it commences,
A nightly routine of having nothing to do,
And being happy.
Or maybe having something to do, and ignoring it.
Because in these hours, you're free.
Nowhere to go, nothing to do.
The world is blind to you.
In these moments, you don't exist.
No one can see you, or hear you.
You're drifting between worlds, you disappear.
It's a nice kind of disappearing, though.
A slow fade, like a deep sigh.
Next come the '2 am thoughts'
(Mine occur around 10:45)
And then the staring match with your ceiling,
Or the creation of something secret:
A poem, or a story, or a drawing, a song.
Then the dreaming.
Not real in-your-sleep dreams,
But waking dreams, daydreams,
simply with the addition of a moon and stars,
fantasies played out behind your eyelids.
Maybe your drab curtains turn into luxurious silks
hung around the room like in a movie, all varying jewel tones,
From a deep pomegranate hue to
A color of blue that seems to shimmer like the night sky.
You sit within the folds of your make-believe tent,
Maybe your dreams take you somewhere else.
The heavy breathing in the room next door
Brings you to a rocky island,
with waves whispering rhythmically against the shore,
You are sitting on a precipice,
Wrapped in too many sweaters,
Breathing in the cool, clean air and perfectly at ease.
Or perhaps, you are transported to a forest.
The shadows crisscrossing your floor become trees so tall
Their tips are wreathed in cloudy haloes.
You wander between them, dodging roots that look like
The fingers of giant hands that wish to free themselves from the dirt.
You collect colorful fallen leaves,
(From a pale butter color to a flaming orange)
And you are relaxed.
So utterly relaxed.
Soon you will drop off to sleep, and then
It will be time to get ready for another big day.
But for now, you can just be still.
You’re still here.