We are all lost and losing, and sleep holds no promise of a tomorrow any different to yesterday or today. Scarlett O’Hara had it wrong, Mammy. You may rest assured of that.
But see, under the pale skin of her wrist her blue veins lie. In the blue veins blood flows. The daytime thoughts that she suppresses make that blood itch. Thoughts that are carried to her dreams, infecting her sleep with jumbled agonies of regret and resentment.
In a black dress floating with jewel coloured butterflies, a woman sits and drinks, and drinks and thinks, and drinks to not think, watching the room and the people in it. She is happy to an extent, here with people she cares about, who care about her. To an extent, she can pretend that her sleep isn’t infected. But under that pale skin and through those blue veins her hopeless blood flows on, delivering dreams she doesn’t want to share, not even as a joke.
There is a woman that I used to be, but I lost her. There is a woman that I used to love. I lost her, too.
We are all lost and losing, and sleep holds no promise.