There’s a small piece of black, like a bird, tumbling up and down, as it floats past on the red-brown river, while geese noisily dig at the winter shorn grass. Until I can raise my eyes past the immediate, the whole world seems the same grey and brown: the trees, the grass grows over it, the geese dig it up, the road,the walking path, the water, they’re all grey, all brown. When I can open my eyes past a squint I see the barest shade of slate blue filling the thickest middle of the river.
My computer clicks as I type, processing with or without me, and the cars go by like sleighs. The Doppler effect stacks them so that they seem something cyclical, the wind, which is cold, fills in the gaps between and turns them all into a singular resonance.
It is one o’clock in the afternoon and I have been asleep for thirteen hours. I’m still thick with it, still half mired in dreams. One moment’s pause between words and I have trouble not sinking back there, even as the fragile pieces of that place fall apart like crystal made of papier-mâché . There was so much there, so many things, and I’m losing them.
I would go back to sleep, but I know that place is gone. No two dreams are the same, no good dream ever repeats itself. There are no encores.
Yesterday, I had my first breathing study and it stole the breath from my lungs for the rest of the day. I know I went to kung fu thereafter, I know I could barely think for the lack of oxygen to my brain. I know I slept on the couch, with the cat, until Mary came home. We ordered food and I ate too much, and then I slept.
In between then and now a world of lives, events, experiences, all gone. I was abroad for a long time, but amnesia has stolen my travels, I have nothing to show.
Now here, in the world where my foot won’t support my weight without pain, my breath doesn’t come, where I’m mired in medical appointments, juggling constant fatigue with the psychological need to do something, where my plants are dying and spring won’t come, I have no easy meaning or direction. I have no video game sense of the right way to go, of the steps to be taken. All the missed calls, missed messages, emails, and texts, all the notifications of them fill me with apprehension.
While I’m awake, there’s nothing but guilt from nothing and worry over everything.
For a solipsist, the zoetic world can be hellish.
When one is awake too long, all his dreams will fade.