The Insomniac Blueprint That Reads Well with a Generously-Lit Mobile Device
She stays still long enough for the breeze to pour around her upper-half. The early night creeps with threatening familiarity — but as the sweat slowly departs her forehead — her eyes open to both screens of her existence.
Earlier in the day was the same. The repetitive motions of swaggering in and out of bed — towards the medicine table is necessary. It gives the sun rays a dazed smile through the smoke of a mangled pipe. It’s dark always — even when the birds chirp away the hopes for a rainy day. Diving back into bed brings back the dull ache that shifts from top to bottom — as punishment for cushions that she tearfully disorganized.
Hours before was nightfall. The boozy editorials are championed from the clutter on the table, with a mix of missed calls and the screens filled with escape routes. The reruns of Lost are mesmerizing enough and after the final glass — the scramble for episodes becomes her folly as the call resumes and she refuses.
She lays back to summon the strength to end it. Her eyes stare blankly at the ceiling as the spinning cycle both scares and excites. She drops the remote on the empty glass and she’s grateful there was nothing to spill. The show is over and all that awaits is vast space of sheets and a heavy blanket that shouldn’t comfort.
Lifting off used to be easier, but getting older without warning has given her steps the respect of what has transpired and what might never be. Standing in front of the mirror in stark nakedness used to be a turn on. But, at this moment, it’s a dull reminder of why she can’t seem to light it up.
Even in the shade of yellow — her protruding belly can’t mimic the scenario of a burgeoning embryo. The growth inside her has nothing to do with the gift of life. It’s a nagging intrusion that has left her middle half misshapen with pleas for release. She strikes different poses in an effort to mentally erase the evidence of the doctor’s visit she keeps cancelling every time she’s high enough to sing.
The belly is still there. It won’t bulge and it won’t solve the issue of fertility or calm down the hormones that are initiated when womanhood has reached its peak. Her eyes begin to sting and she steps away and collapses on the bed. The weight of the tumors throw her harder than anticipated. It feels good to be on her back, but the combination of nausea and exhaustion dampen the brightness of the room.
It’s early morning. The heavy blanket has created a pool — and wading in wakes her up just in time to reach for the light.
She lights it up.
The pain of a heavy head and the soreness of a practiced night-cap make visibility almost impossible — until the timelines come into focus. The weird sensations grip her again. It seems that the vagina she never used that much — is now begging for attention. The timing is weird given the personal diagnosis — but she obliges with the pillow that will surely crack her neck for good.
The activity ends and leaves her panting with the little joy she knows for months. She’s wide awake and ready to accept the fate she tries to escape when daylight persists, and yet only sweltering nights with the sound of the fan gives the vibes for continuous torture.
Her first stop is Instagram. Her fingers expertly manipulate the profiles showcasing the Amalfi Coast and the couples that were chosen to teach her a hard lesson. She glides back to Twitter and examines the effects of the explosion, and the immediate reaction from world leaders — as the revised avatars in honor of the burnt citizens — commence with vigor.
Then, there’s the actress that looks like her with a life that can’t get any better. This is the phase she enjoys. The “in-between sleep” realm that gives her enough juice to fantasize about who she was supposed to be — without shutting down a possible slumber.
She’s back up again. The phone is dark and menacing, and without flinching — she lights it up.
This time she can read well. The TV screen is blazing with the time — and she systematically reignites the screen she can actually hold with her fingers — boasting chipped nail polish that is just as yellow as the page that opens without her consent. It’s the video that allowed her to scream into the dark with isolated ecstasy.
The swift reflex of shame hits her as she exits out and enters the cranial of the web with jaws of disruptiveness — matching her disorientation. She ravages the pages of fortune that don’t include the throbbing that won’t go away — no matter how many pills she pops after the moon respectfully disappears.
The sudden and quick buzzing ushers a delayed response to the question she asked two days ago. It’s the confirmation to the appointment she cancelled. She can now feel the fluid expelling in a constant flow, that almost stuns her until the red becomes another color — with the aqua tone of the spread that still feels cool enough to feel.
The floating begins and she slowly moves her right hand to rest on the belly that seems to be bursting with every breath that she pushes out of the mouth that is trying to maintain its shape.
The slight tilt for the bigger screen gives her a dizzying signal that movements will no longer be tolerated unless the hole in her wrist is mended.
She decides to finally fix it. After she wakes up.