I ache for sleep and yet cannot, this
early morning on this cool day, waiting to rise but aching to remain unmoved –
a part of me throbbing from dreams I have while awake, caught in some
compromise between consciousness and the subconscious that allows my body to
lift itself out while my mind lingers of the edge of dream.
All my dreams are the same dreams run
constantly like a reel to a movie in which I always repeat myself, aching for
the same thing I rarely receive when awake.
I look out a window that sees only dark,
and can’t even see my own reflection in the glass as I am undead.
And I wonder am I moved by thirst for
blood, or lust to be something I was not born to be, bound and gagged by some
social mandate I never meant to sign – as if in my sleep I traded by soul away
to Lucifer and missed out on what I was supposed to get in exchange.
If someone is going to sell his soul, he
ought to get his brief moment of pleasure –or at worst remember what it was he
wanted to badly that he would accept eternal damnation for it.
I must slept at some point during the
night because everything seems vague to me except for the throbbing in my
temple and my thighs – feelings I usually get when I dream about fucking
someone.
But unlike other nights when I can put a
face to the dream, I remember nothing, and I float in the void of memory for a
while, until I go back passed the sleep to a memory from before, and I recall
leaving my car in the vast emptiness of Lot 6 at school, fearing that someone
has towed it away because it shouldn’t be there.
Like me, the carburetor spews fuel in
all direction except for the shaft where it will do any good, and traveling any
distance is as rough as riding a bronco without a saddle or pants, and because
the gas tank has so little fuel, I could not guarantee making the nearest gas
station without running out.
I took a bus home amid the chatter of
Spanish ladies from Paterson
All I want to do is go back to sleep –
if I ever was – and dream again whatever it was I dreamt to make me feel so
flushed.
I keep telling myself the car won’t be
there and there’s no point of my traveling all that way in the cold, getting
frost bite or pneumonia only to be redirected to some tow yard when I won’t
have money to get the car out of hock, and no gas to drive it anywhere with the
carburetor spewing gasoline every which way.
I might get mugged or worse getting off
one bus in the center of downtown Paterson to wait for the next bus to take me
up the hill to Wayne, the drug dealers mingling with the prostitutes and all of
them giggling at me and the dreams they suspect my unconscious will stir up.
But somewhere in the dreams I can’t
remember dreaming, I remember being happy or satisfied, something that I
generally struggle to get in the waking world. I like dreams in which I can do
things I can’t do in real life, be with people who wouldn’t be caught dead with
me otherwise, fix a car I know I will have a hell of a time fixing when I wake
up.
Why can’t I remember a dream in which
the car is fixed?
Why can’t I be content in going back to
sleep and letting the world go?
Why do I always wake up this early with
all the chirping going on inside my head that has nothing to do with the
chirping of birds outside?
With so many things amiss in my life
these days, why can’t I just drift off and make believe they are solved, while
I make love to imaginary people, and complete imaginary feats of bravery – when
I know the bravest thing I could possible do at this moment is to get up and go
find and fix my fucking car?
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