There I sat, naked and cold, waiting for something to happen and wondering what I was waiting for. Lips painted crimson, I licked them clean without realizing I was doing it. My demure demeanor trumped the unrestrained woman whom I imagine myself to be when I hear the song “Dirt” by Iggy Pop and the Stooges. My eyes followed the blurred, edgeless line where corrected vision met nearsightedness. I questioned which side I preferred at that particular moment and gave up on the thought before I found an answer.
As I slouched and slid further down the mattress, my breasts settled into the space where arm meets ribcage. Blankets were methodically layered over my legs by some version of me that I have yet to understand. Maintaining small habits provided relief when juxtaposed with my impending course. I was prepared to be unprepared, and my evolution depended on it. The drone of an empty speaker reaffirmed my thoughts.
Eyes fought Mind and eventually won. But before I was able to fully submit to my body’s weighted pleas, I wondered:
Why do I attempt to thwart my sleep? Surely I’m not staying awake in anticipation of something interesting happening.
Maybe sleep is resisted by those who are happy and pure in their lives. The novelty of dreams falters in the face of tangible, breathable bliss.