in my bed and out of my head
When my thoughts diverge and converge, I find my sleepless and thoughtful self in this scenario most of the time:
There is something lurking here at night, in the dark, in the confines of my dream-like solitude. No, it is not those creatures I associate darkness and night with. It is something much more; it is that entity and at the same time, space in, within, and around my head—the place that holds my memories and fuels my imagination—that trouble me. It is troubling because it has the tendency to forget as much as it can remember.
(Sleep has been elusive, as always, and time has been oppressive because my sleeping patterns seem to evolve on its own and have decided to go against the clock’s conventions, hence, its revolt against the mechanics of time. This is one of those many nights when my mind wanders into the clouds so much that sleep just refuses to descend and dominate a tired but wondering body.)
When we think we remember something that happened or someone we met from long ago, how much of what we saw and felt at that specific point do we actually remember? Do they stay in the crevices of our brains, in the dark rooms of our imaginations? Do they leak out from our heads and dissipate in the air or float towards the universe together with the stars? How much can one remember and how much can one forget?
(Perhaps, it is my overdose of caffeine that prompted my brain to process so much in these supposed hours of cold silence that sleep has decided to stay somewhere else, away from me and my boisterous brain. Ah, lessons, lessons must be learned!)
When memories fail us and those around us, what becomes of us? Are memories the only ones that make us who we are?
When your body is just so tired and beckons sleep, the mind thinks otherwise and shuns it. Have any of you experienced this?