metaphysical insomnia
I sleep in a cave. It hosts no light. In the centre is a circular pool of pristine water, naturally heated by the chaos beneath the Earth’s crust.
As I fall into bed at the end of each day, in a parallel universe that is not so very far away from this one, I sink slowly and gratefully into the water and let its warmth surround me. I relax. As far as I can tell, the pool is bottomless. I let all the air in my lungs escape through my nostrils as my head slips under the surface.
Slowly, my arms float away from my sides, and I hang there suspended. My mind is still awake, but not quite conscious — thoughts race through my head at a hundred miles an hour. Time loses its meaning.
It still passes, however, and as it does, through the mêlée of my mind an awareness builds: I am no longer sinking. With this awareness comes a goal; a need to continue my journey downwards in to the inky blackness that contains my dreams. However, I feel helpless, for I am in such a fragile state of suspension that one single muscle movement will propel me up and out of my liquid sanctuary. I need to relax, in body and in mind, to weight my bones with the lead of unconsciousness, before I descend any further.
I try to dispel the thoughts in my head, try to match my mind to the endless watery expanse beneath me, but the thoughts race ever faster, chasing eachothers’ tails ’round in circles and instilling in me a sense of panic. My yearning for the ultimate blackness intensifies, and as it does so, so does the pull from above. I resist, frantically trying to fend it off with my overcrowded mind while keeping my body still, fighting its efforts to shift my focus to the material world.
And then…I let go. I drift down, spinnung gently all the while, and am enveloped in the velvety dark. Dreams creep in through my mouth, my nostrils, my ears, my eyes…and I surrender to sleep.
