SILF

So I'm in bed and it's just after midnight. I couldn't sleep for the life of me and I was starting to get angry. Have I done something to the sleep-gods to deserve this? I thought. Insomnia is only good for a triple-feature drive in...and well, I did that the night before.
So, where the hell was my sleep?

I got to thinking... I got to thinking real hard and for some reason I started to smell smoke.
No, no I didn't. That was a lie. My brain was not on fire.
But, I was in fact thinking. About what? You ask. Well that's a good question. I was thinking about the Sealy Serta commercial ads on tv...the ones with the sheep. I figured counting sheep was a common enough strategy to gain some zzzzz's, so I did just that.

By the time I'd reached seven, I'd gotten anxious and jumped straight to thirteen. From thirteen, I was getting a little bit bored and considered halting the count-up. But I was still wide awake and desperate for sleep.
So twenty-three rolled around the corner and I couldn't help but wonder, where do the sheep go? I mean really... I'm at twenty-three, what if twenty-two landed wrong, sprained his ankle and couldn't move. Here comes big, fat twenty-three doing a canon-ball over the fence (my sheep were jumping a fence in a nice meadow) and lands on top of him. Of course twenty-four won't know and he's gonna just hop the fence too and the next thing you know there's a pile up of sheep.

Well, to keep it simple and stop myself from having to clean up after their stupid mess, I decided to only have one sheep to count. He was a lazy bastard, that's why I chose him. He ran laps pretty much, up and over and up and over. He pouted and heaved and sighed... and his tongue hung out of his mouth. And just as he started to suffer from fatigue and exhaustion, I fell asleep.

sleep.in.ideas

An entry from Dec 2002

Murder was the only way

A tortured soul began

Misconceptions had their day

When fearfully, she ran

The murder was that of her heart

Her tortured soul: denial

Her life is something that imitates art

Her confidence: a downwards spiral

They say everything in general

but 'general' drilled to her bone

They say their shit in general

but 'general's' not when you're alone

Can ignorance truly be bliss?

Our lack of knowledge be okay?

Can a kiss be more than a kiss?

When we've got such bullshit to say?

Anger replaced her confidence,

her loneliness and fear

Her 'tortured soul' splattered a picket fence

'Murder' hung lamely in the air.

Underneath the entry, I'd noted down a few things 1) "I think it sucks now that I've read it a few times." and 2) The poem was regarding a racist graffiti image in a school washroom. Anyway... I'll likely be adding a few more.

sleep.in.ideas.