I suffer with jetlag. Badly. Add my usual requirement of one day’s recovery for each hour’s time difference, to the fact that I have a humdinger of a headcold, to my general exhaustion after an intercontinental move in my 50’s and my old friend insomnia has become my bedfellow once or twice a week.
When I can’t sleep, I read, and have just read the wonderful, marvellous, inspiring, delicious The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. The way he puts words together in an unexpected way is both shocking and stunning. I had to read with a pen in my hand to underline the good bits. There are lots of good bits. Anyway, inspired by Zusak and the occasional blackness in my life of insomnia, I wrote the following:
Transparent with tiredness,
crunched under hot sheets,
my cheek seeks cool cotton,
those colours of limbo.
I long to sink
into oblivion’s pictureshow,
to drown before dawn shoves
bony fingers beneath the blinds,
inveigling hope to turn on its heel.
Fear confiscates dreams.
Thoughts popcorn ,
worry bears down on my chest,
it suffocates then
bites mouthfuls from this needed rest
to spew them over morning,
gobs of self-pity slide down shoulders
that show a permanent stain.
This vomiting infant, hungry, howling,
refuses to grow up
and has now grown old, and tired, like me.