can't sleep. miss my wife. she grounds me (in all senses)... when i am untethered by my thoughts and dreams, one of my comforts is seeing her beside me, breathing. and to hear her mutter, "go to sleep," it's the command that i can't resist.
but alone, there's no counterpoint. and this bed is so vast and empty, i feel consumed by the blank and negative space. and my thoughts wash out without resistance. no one hems me in. no one draws my outlines...
i don't understand why i am dissolving nowadays. my words are uncontrolled, insipid, diluted of intent or meaning. somehow, they lay claim to another significance, but it is not the significance i would have intended, but is another voice. there was a concept i recall, from religion classes, that beneath the landscape, the familiar landscape of our language, it is not that there is a blank slate, but that there is another "truer" landscape, the swell of nameless hills and valleys, or the draws and repulsions of gravity wells and springs. it is naive to think that one could "get beneath" language, and yoke it to one's service, as one would an ox. language writes and speaks me, the more so when i see its absurdity...
i am empty, but i cannot stop writing. there is a flow of something, and regrettably, it comes whether it is beautiful or sewage...
i rely on others, on my wife, the rationality and sense and responsibility of life, to keep things inside... to serve as my second skin.
somehow, exhausted, this night will end. but until then, i try fruitlessly to end this interminable.
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