Sleep does not come because sleep does not will it
Laura Marling- My Manic and I

My sister is sleeping, restless.  She had a deadline, I am being the big sister, trying to be.  I can’t sleep, I sit around.  A bottle of wine hasn’t touched me, sleep isn’t up for it.  You know, I don’t mind.  I drifted today, from 4a.m. til afternoon.  In and out.  the snow’s beautiful.  I want a smoke just so I can walk to the shops for the cigarettes, sit outside legitimately, breathe out white.  I know something’s amiss.  I can’t place it.  People are shifting, things are weird.  Not weird; unusual.  That’s a word I stole from K.  Love and stuff, friendship and stuff, are in constant flux, I know they always are, I feel I’m only just noticing.

I thought it was strange
You said everything changed, you felt
As if you just woke up
-Bright Eyes, First Day of my Life

Is there damage?  Is it up to me to repair it?  Do the tears stitch themselves, is it up to someone else?  And if so, whom?  Someone sent me a message that should have hurt; I only wanted to correct her grammar.

I am going to church tomorrow. Lately I take comfort in the idea of original sin.  If I was born, if we were born, already wrong… all that follows after is inevitable.  I listen to Emmy the Great a lot.  That liminal space between belief and rejection.  Wilty, rejecting, leaning towards some light I’ll never (won’t want to) reach.  Human beings were born unfinished, unready… I read that recently, ploughing the world for my essay.  It’s true and maybe it’s punishment?  Or maybe it’s a chance for the attainment of something perfected.

Someone I used to fancy a bit, had a perfect boob-eye ratio.  I tried to explain this to my sister.  Da Vinci woman, or something.  Alignment.  Dunno.

I try to ask about the damage, I want to be the one to repair it because I caused it.  Rent in the friendships?  I know… I made it strange.  I dropped a stone and it’s still rippling the calm.

But I didn’t mean to.

Why all the water imagery?  Am I still drowning, in my mind?  Waiting to?  Or is it the flux, the space, the unready state?

Will the meds ever work?  Will I ever stop drinking?

Do I want them to/ do I want to?

D’you know what I’m saying?

I would like to smoke in the snow.

But I’m scared of The Snowman, Wallace Stevens’ Snowman.

(and the man I passed upon the stair, that rhyme, I talked to my sister about it today, how I wish he’d go away, we are usually afraid of the same things but that rhyme doesn’t frighten her like it does me and god, that thought is enough to keep me from going outside, the shop might be lit and the cigarette ends my tiny burn, like a city light in miniature, microcosm, body as urban space, body as representation, geographical human, cartography… who knows?… but beyond the shop and the seat and the glow in my hand there is darkness, and a man who is not or is there)

I wish I were drunk, I really, really, wish I were drunk.


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