Another Monday found me awake hours before my alarm clock. I used to love sleep so much; lingering until even beyond the last possible second to rise, to get ready, to catch the bus.

Now, I go to sleep impatiently and rise as if a duty as been performed. See, I say to myself as if I were speaking to a parent, I slept as you bid me...

And I get up and I pace. I pace through two or three websites. I pace through my room, stepping over dirty clothes, pages strewn with half-written letters away or poetry to myself, and stacks of books.

I pace and I think and try to remember my dreams, because lately they are vivid, intense.

Last night, there was anger, although it wasn't mine. I only witnessed cruelity and harsh words, but I stayed silent, so maybe it was mine in the end, after all.

We were, all three of us in the dream, lost.

I once wrote of sleeping to rise to leave. I was once in love. Now, I sleep as if it's a punishment and love, well, has nothing to do with me.

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