I can’t sleep. I don’t know why and I feel tired. Me and sleep have never liked each other. I don’t go to it with open arms and cuddle up to it for as long as I can. Me and sleep are not old friends. We are not a sweet old couple. I do sleep, but it has to track me down, tie me to a surface I can lie down on and smother me.
I’d rather brush my teeth than sleep. I rather iron shirts, wash dishes, watch the worst of television. I’d rather type this than sleep.
My son, almost three now, ended my nightly wrestle with sleep this morning. He came into our bed, climbed over on my wife’s side. He whimpered himself to sleep with a couple of ‘papa’s and was fine. My wife barely woke up. She loves sleep. For her sleep is an angel, for me it’s Goliath. I’m jealous of my wife on this. I’d like for me and sleep to get on.
I hate the fucker though. It reminds me of death. It’s the only thing which truly reminds me of something that hasn’t happened yet. It’s the only thing which reminds me of something that hasn’t happened yet, but surely will. I may never have another bacon sandwich. I may never make love again. I may never learn to drive a car. I may never again sit on a tropical beach, get drunk, swear loudly with passion, masturbate, walk in the snow, wink at my children, kick a ball, laugh, go to work, tell someone I love them.
But, I will fucking die and sleep, the bastard, the evil, silent bastard, reminds me of this every single day.
And, even when I am drunk on red wine. Even when I come inside my wife. Even when I hold my children. At those moments when death is almost, almost forgotten, out of my ken, sleep still waits behind the armchair, under the pillow, with that fucking grin on his face, that knife at my side, waiting without fatigue with boundless, unforgiving relish, to stick it to me again. And again. Until it wins and I lose.
And, in this, and only this, you are no different from me.
