Misguided Temporal Perceptions of the Heart

The details of someone else's life close to yours. You see them as you see memory, the way you look back at love instead of seeing it here, now. Why is it that I can not be here in the present? My mind refuses to acknowledge that time is not just something that has passed, but that is also something that is passing before us every moment. I can not be with her because I can not be with her now. I miss her and yet she is still here.

In dreams we venture forth into the space between us, like astronauts rehearsing poems to recite to the stars once they are closer to their light. Sleep isolates our hearts, and when we wake we walk back towards the previous night, trying to retain what we forgot.

And already my heart insists on speaking in past tense. Even the future has happened before, the touch of deja-vu on quiet lips, trembling promises unkept and unspoken. Words are outlined in invisible, embroidered thread, masking meaning in layers of unseen silk. Reality underdeveloped under our distorted perceptive lens, the corners of objects lost into the next, rounded pixels of color overcrowding the screen. To speak is to breath in silent sighs, to not disturb the frequency of air, itself sleeping amidst sleepless thoughts, standing between all the things we can not see.

Cheating on sleep

All along sleep awaits my return. Each day the wait feels longer. Sleep knows not what time means to itself. While we are there it lengthens our stay through dreams, entertaining us with pieces of what we have lived through, reshaping them into the unexpected narratives of our unconscious. In this way we communicate with sleep through dreams. By ignoring them we ignore that relationship, the trust that we have built throughout our entire life, severing the thread that connects us to what we need.

sharing sleep

... The way she turned the corners of speech, disappearing into a dialogue that nobody could comprehend. She was consumed by the sleeplessness that she encountered within her dreams. Awaking in between late afternoon cat naps, dosing back into the paused realities of her unconscious. Dreams dubbed in a child's voice, whispering in the language of sunsets and car crashes. The noise that she hears when she wakes up. Somewhere close to her unopened eyes, the soft breathing of a familiar sleep.

hypnagogic writing

{{i wrote this last nite while falling asleep}}

surface connected through the passage of time. dialing phone numbers to a disconnected past. the same fingers that touched her eyelids, always closed.

a non-linear mess of the things we cannot recall. balls of yarn unraveling into words. a cursive language only spoken in sleep. mumbling into dreams that seep into reality. pigment watered by the rains of a misunderstanding. the marbled surface of our bathroom floor.

miscalculated maps wrapped around a broken arm.