on singing a new lullaby.
i am on a harsh mattress and a wooly pillow that sounds brittle; frozen despite the cacoon of cotton wrapped around me. this is a trap. and fatigue was my bait. yet I can’t seem to fall asleep; only fallen into perpetual thoughts and useless memories, distorted images of victories and defeat.
i’m too old to imagine a narrative out of this surrealistic chronicle. i’m too old to believe that the sound of rain will flush away all the crap that has formed in my head.
it is now raining. gradually and gently. light pitter patters that fall on the metallic roof. like the crackles I hear from my pillow, like the sound of me rubbing my eye, like a forgotten and now futile lullaby.
