I heard myself moaning during the night, but I did not realize until much later I was the one making the sounds. Until I determined I had been responsible for the noise, I felt both pity and scorn for the source of the sound. Once I knew, though, my perspective changed. I cringed in embarrassment. I felt myself clutching at the weeds; trying to disguise myself by covering my face. Half an hour crept by, unnoticed, while I attempted to distance myself from who I had been.
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My oversight is haunting me. I allowed my medical marijuana license to lapse. My next objective, then, will be to go through the necessary hoops to recover it so that, afterward, I can have ready access to the flimsy, funny serenity that accompanies consumption of gummies.
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The time is approaching 7:00 a.m. Or, maybe, I am approaching that moment in time, instead. Regardless, the next phase will involve additional sleep. I have come to love sleep. Sleep is my refuge; a den into which I burrow. I can fall asleep in the passenger seat of a car, thereby transforming the vehicle into a retreat. The car’s metal cage becomes a protective shell; an impenetrable fortress that can save me from injury but cannot prevent intrusion by disease.
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This is an odd atmosphere…this place between reality and fantasy. It does not…cannot…exist, but its denial is an exercise in pointlessness. Dreaming while awake and alive must be an experience unlike any other. This post seems to encapsulate madness at every angle, doesn’t it? It is an intentional endeavor, meant to avoid the hum-drum meaninglessness that is so often as solid as hardened epoxy and as fluid as free-flowing glass.
