Whenever I am able to fall asleep, I am grateful - it is a suspension. I wouldn't be surprised to discover that I twitch and roll, on a few occasions I have fallen off my bed. A great combat takes place during the night - my covers and pillows are displaced.
Everywhere, after the storm of another restless night, there is emotional devastation. Acquaintances are put aside, faith withers, and painful thoughts come to the surface. Harmony, illusion, equilibrium are annihilated.
The storms of doubt, the quick clouding of hypersensitivity, the stiffness of my movements, leave many echoes of despair in my mood. I look in the mirror, at my scars and I can't help but extract an ever unsatisfactory image of myself.
This too shall pass I remind myself. Nothing is permanent.
My hair is as unruly as my whole self; no comb can improve the mess. No shirt will cling and mould me, but every inch of my shirt will stand out like a ruffled feathered.
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