waiting waiting waiting

I had a couple of drinks last night, because I'd crossed the line between tired-but-fully-functional and just plain fucked up. Alcohol and sleeping pills are the same evil to me. I don't want to lean on either of them, ever. Because they work, they're more than tempting. All the cold air falls out of the fridge while I stand there looking at a bottle of pills and a bottle of swill, knowing that either might give me a good night's sleep, knowing that neither will actually give me anything more than one single good night's sleep. I'd rather be exhausted and fucked up than lean on them.

But, every now and then.

It was a nice sleep. A relaxed sleep. I dreamed of hotels and lions. I was confused about who I was when I woke up, because my jaw didn't ache. I was so comfortable, so relaxed, until I remembered how to be me. Clenched jaw, frown, balled fists, tight muscles; a system of tension that seems to provide all the cues I'll ever need to know who I am when I wake. I'm one walking clench. A walking, talking, breathing, sullen clench of locomotive meat, braced against the impact of morning, afternoon, evening, night.

I'm going to get the picnic blanket out off the cupboard, and lie on my back in the backyard, with the trees, and the dogs, and the grass, and the wind. My feet are cold. That's okay.