Rest’s Deceit

Each day, I find myself waking

in a cognitive fog —

where no two thoughts come together

and I sit for hours each morning

in a state of moody disconnect.

I have narcolepsy

and

I feel half alive.

The day drones on and,

though I am more awake,

my body aches everywhere

the hands

the ankles

the spine

the knuckles

the toes

the pain of a lifetime of suffering

and of climbing through crevices

to briefly find some light.

My body now keeps the score.

Afternoon comes, and to stay awake,

I must push through thick water

to get from one moment to the next,

wondering if there is any moment worthy

of keeping myself alive.

Eyelids always heavy, begging to close

to black out the numbness I feel

from a dull, medicated mind

that bears no thought, no feeling —

a life lobotomized and bleak.

Night comes,

and though I’ve pushed through the day,

the thought of continuing

gives a nasty taste in my mouth

like old grease at a dirty neighborhood diner

reminding me

how ugly it can feel to exist.

And, finally, I lie down,

and allow myself to fantasize

about anything that might make me feel more alive,

something to give reprieve

to a life so stale

that I seek stimulation

like a stranded soul with nobody with whom to make love.

Then, the time comes

that I allow sleep

bringing with it a

smooth release

and everything rectifies.

This peace is the only pleasure I know.

Yet, somehow,

each night,

I feel that the next day might be better,

possibly because the restfulness

tricks me to believe

that tomorrow’s wakefulness

will yield pleasure —

a lie I long to believe.