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December
28, 2005. I laid in the very middle of my bed, clouds of comforter all around me. I have five pillows upon my bed, 3 of which have fairly soft, worn covers, the other two are a bit more crinkly and thick. Cotton, cotton, everywhere. Into dreams I sink. I laid flat on my back, and I stared up at the ceiling, and I willed myself to drop, and just like that, I dropped. Focused, I can do this. When I am not occupied, when I am otherwise not distracted. When I am flatlined on thought, when, philosophically, I am unchallenged. Unto myself, I can summon the sleep as easily as blinking my eyes. The layers of material covering over me trapped the heat and kept it close to me. I could feel my body equalizing, regulating, circulating, respirating. My breath slowed, my toes pointed naturally, my shoulders and hips relaxed. This was all an exercise in clean, simple, needful napping. I took the clearest path from A to B. I am unfettered, I am acting as though my conscience is a blank slate. No marks upon my eyelids, no dirt under my fingernails, no pursed lips or balled fists. Drop, drop, deep. Light, dim, through curtains. No song stuck in my head. No conversation to go over in my head. No messages to return. No reminders of the outside world. I won't lie: I miss the deprivation. go
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