What a surprise it would be if the grey sky suddenly changed from vapor and emptiness into thick sheets of jagged glass and semi-transparent plastic. Watching pieces of the sky crash down, smashing trees into splinters, would be an experience unlike any I have had before. I might actually enjoy watching it, if I were far enough from the action to avoid being torn to bits by sharp fragments. I might be afraid, though. How quickly can one erase fear and replace it with curiosity? Can it be done on command? You tell me; I think you’ve witnessed such magic.
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Another visit to the oncologist today. I am tired of making the trip to see her. I wonder whether, now that I have finished a full course of chemo treatment, I might survive comfortably for a year or more without subjecting myself to immunotherapy “treatments” that offer no guarantees—just hope that may or may not be fully justified. Selfishness, though, is not a sufficiently powerful reason to ignore the doctor’s advice. And it is not the sort of behavior that should be forced upon others, either; especially others who are emotionally invested in a hopeful, positive outcome. Too much sleep, sometimes, is not enough.
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I did not sleep well last night. I think I drifted off to sleep sometime after midnight, roughly two hours after I went to bed. But I woke shortly thereafter and was up and down for much of the rest of the night. Sleep eluded me for most of that time. My mind was occupied with matters I would rather ignore; but my obligations are such that I would be unable to erase them from my thoughts. Damn! When I am awake for so much of the night, my mood becomes surly and generally unpleasant; I cannot stand being around myself when I reach that condition. Negativity and unchecked anger flood my brain. I am immune to reason then. I curse the world around me and blame myself for it. Sometimes I manufacture stories to describe my attitudes in those moments. Describing my experience as akin to feeling corrosive acid flowing through my veins and arteries, with periodic geysers erupting through blood-soaked holes in my skin would be inadequate. Inadequate, at least, to capture the rage I feel. Bah!
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One does not “wake” from a sleepless night, though dreamlike experiences may make one feel as if brief periods of sleep interrupted hours of wakefulness. Dreamlike experiences, though, are not the same as dreams. They mimic dreams to the extent that reality is temporarily paused while the “dreams” take place. But one can feel perspiration-soaked sheets during the pause. And the “dreamer” feels confined by the “dream.” Yet he knows he is in a state of deeply troubling semi-consciousness from which there is no reliable escape—only when the the terror threatens to cut off oxygen to the brain is a brief respite possible. Thrashing wildly, in an effort to avoid the extreme discomfort of sheets wet with sweat, one crashes into solid barriers that do not exist except in the far reaches of the mind. When, finally, one emerges fully awake from the depths of Hell, the deepest form of fatigue sets in. Exhaustion so powerful one willingly would accept death as an alternative experience just to escape the intensity of the profound weariness. Recovering from such a sleepless night can take a week or more. Up to a month—or even longer—if the experience was especially cruel; the most severe incidents can transform the mental breakdown into life-threatening physical damage to the body.
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Every single newspaper article, each and every online news story, all opinion pieces, every radio station’s news readers, and grave-faced television anchors, regardless of channel, carry the same themes. Hopelessness. A bleak future. The collapse of civil society. No way out. If today is bad, tomorrow will be a thousand times worse. And tomorrow will pale in comparison to the day after. Mass-suicide by self-immolation will be the least painful escape from what promises to be the most excruciating experience in all of human history. There is no “good news;” only brief moments in which absolute terror pauses just long enough to enable us to exact unthinkable pain on the deserving throng. We train to inflict the greatest experience of utter despair—and to prolong the ordeal to deliver the maximum measure of agony. Brutality becomes a yardstick; hatred an emotional “high.” All in the name of humanity.
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I could sleep for days, I think, if I could just clear my mind. That would be such a refreshing way to spend the better part of a week. Asleep. My brain functioning only as necessary to keep me reasonably healthy and reliably alive.
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When I return to read this post, will I feel embarrassed by my raw negativity? If, when I return, I feel like I do now, the answer will be clear: No.
