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I
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should be sleeping, but
my roommate woke me up accidentally (ironically by turning off my light for me
so I could sleep better) and now as the sun comes up I’m lying awake in my
basement room wishing I could get back to sleep but stuck with wakefulness.
I can’t help wondering how much of my life I’ve spent like
this—desperately clutching at sleep that never seems to come. Leafing through
my journal I see a lot of entries like that—tired but sleepless, bleak moments,
writing to stave off the demons.
Looking around online I see that politics is dominating
everybody’s waking lives, what with Trump’s government shutdown making life
miserable for everybody. It’s definitely worrisome for me; those of us who live
on other people’s scraps get fewer of them when times are tight. But I’m an old
person now, and my friends are dead, and I have little left to look forward to,
so having a raving loon for our president is just a detail, as it were. Mind
you, I hope he dies before I do (not that I expect it); it would be nice to be
able to take a crap on his grave, if only in spirit. But I’d care a lot more
about the permanent damage this mental midget is doing to the country I live in
if I expected to be living in it much longer.
Thoughts are nonproductive, wishes are vain, and words go
nowhere. Damn I wish I could get back to sleep.
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