Something Philosophical

He is dying. Has been dying for a long time, many years in fact. But as of late, the thing that has been eating at him for so long has started to really win and now he lies in a stiff unfamiliar bed. He wishes he could go home. Not the home of song and hymn and bright, white light, but the home that doesn't smell of antiseptic and unemptied bed pans. The home where his wife sleeps every night, the home where his children can visit for as long as they please without a gruff over-stuffed nurse herding them out after an hour.

He lies alone most of the day. The television does not interest him. His room mates are sedated or sleeping. This means he spends most of the day with his thoughts, as one can only do so many crosswords in one day.

Outside his window the world rolls by. People still gloriously alive. He's as far from that as he's ever felt, and he tries to count the days, the hours, the heart beats, the breaths that he has left.

Sleep

Sleep. Sleep. I wish I could sleep. Sleep would be fine. I can't sleep though. This angle puts pressure on my spine. This one hurts my hip. His elbow is digging into my ribs. Where can I put this arm? Where ever I put it, it will be frightfully numb by morning. The fingers will be cold to the touch, I'll shake it and it will slowly start to hurt.

Now I'm thinking about zombies. This is definitely not the way to get to sleep. That thing I need to do drifts across my mind. Men lurking in bushes outside a house I don't own yet. A myoclonic jerk, no fair. I was almost there.

I stare at the lights drifting across the ceiling. I move my pillows. I picture my brain, my spine. I imagine how I will feel tomorrow. My back will be sore. I'll be dizzy. I'll feel like puking, but not quite.

Sleep would be so very good right now.

The Tyranny of Technology

My phone is trying to drive me insane. I'm hallucinating. There isn't anything over there that is that shade of green. The light isn't blinking at me. Why do I think I've missed a text message? No one is trying to get a hold of me.

My bluetooth isn't blinking either. I am not getting a call. No one wants to talk to me. My phone is just trying to drive me insane.

I'm not expecting a call. I'm not talking to anyone. The ring tone did not sound. I have not missed anything. It's all in my imagination. There must be something wrong with that corner of my eye.

There is again. I see it. I know I see it, but I turn and there's nothing. No light on the phone. I pick it up, turn on the screen. Nothing. No communication missed. I put it down, go back to procrastinating.

Again. I'll ignore it this time. If I ignore it, it won't be there and I can finish this game or this sentence. No one is trying to talk to me.

Why?

Riverside isn't the prettiest city in the world. I know there are people who probably think it's the most amazing place they've ever known. But those people grew up here. Those people didn't go to UCR. Those people got into grad school. Those people have jobs. Those people are better writers than I am.

Those people don't want to be as far away from this city as they can get. Those people aren't done with this city after only four years under its choking smog and it's bad drivers. Those people don't see a weekend in San Diego or LA as a great escape, a glimpse of freedom.

I am done with this place. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to be done with me. At every turn there's something else trying to thwart my timely departure. But blaming the place, the school is childish. I know this. And if any thing I know there is more I could do to get my ass out of here in a more expedient fashion.

For one I could write. And so I will. Unfortunately, I'm a lazy bum. And I need to force myself. I need to buckle down and write on the chalk board, a mantra. I will write every day.