March 7th: It's ok

I can't sleep. And it's weird because if you ask anyone sleep is the thing I love most in the world, and, depending how spiteful they feel towards me in the moment, my only true talent. I can sleep for Australia, they'd say, sleep for the earth in galactic games. But tonight I can't sleep. I've tried fantasizing about events that will never occur, outlining each moment like the dots of a painting strung high on an heiresses stucco wall. But I can't sleep tonight. My mind rages and bucks. My heart seems to beat twice as fierce as it did a couple of hours ago. My arms shake in their sockets from the stress of holding me aloft. It's not even midnight and I can't sleep. I'm listening to monk chants. I don't find them particularly relaxing but sitcoms have taught me much, and they've taught me the power of monk chants. I may try whale songs next. Maybe. I like the sound of rain and thunder storms. I've mixed those in with my monk chants in an attempt to recreate the womb like atmosphere of home in summer time. February lay long and tattered behind me, and march looms and whispers promises that drip like tar and acid and flesh peeling from a corpse. In the same vein, however, I'm quite excited. I have many plates spinning, thoughts whirling and eclipsing any anxiety of the future and what it holds. I can't sleep. And that's ok. Instead I will lie still and silent, monks chants playing through thunderstorms floating from my phone like a cheap, pixilated siren. I can't sleep. I can't sleep. And that's ok.