It’s four am and I can’t sleep. It should be enough for me to tell you just that. But my head is swimming, as it has been lately, and it’s full of fragmented thoughts, scraps of phrases and torn to-do lists. One phrase in particular has been haunting my tired brain:
and when we touch we breathe uncertainties
I’ve no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but I like it. I Googled it just now because, you know, it might be song lyrics or something. It’s not. In fact the phrase ‘breathe uncertainties’ only pulled up two hits. If I was a poet I’d do something with it. But I tried my hand at poetry this evening (about eight hours ago, when it was okay to be awake), and I reminded myself that I’m no good at it. I don’t have the ear for it, nor do I know anything about line breaks. Prose poems: that I can do. I think.
It’s late. Or early. Or whatever. And I’m tired and my eyes keep closing while I type this. But I know if I got back to bed, I won’t be able to sleep and I’ll conjure new phrases. And if I was a poet, I’d be grateful; I’d scribble them into a notebook and save them for later.
Instead, though, I’m going to try my hand at sleeping. One more time.