The inability to sleep lately is catching up on me, but I do enjoy the nights of thinking. So many thoughts, so many words flying around in the darkness for me to catch. To catch.
Last night, I dreamt that I slept holding a knife in my hand, and when I woke this morning, I was lying in a pool of blood. There was a knife next to my bed, but the blood came from my innocuous uterus, and the knife only misplaced from emptying my backpack hurriedly after a picnic.
I did hold the knife in my fist before I fell asleep, and I was thinking just how it would feel to die in such a painful way--to thrust that blade through my breast plate, into the beating muscle of my heart.
It hurt so much in that moment--in the exact place of my heart, and although I wasn't lying in bed alone, the darkness had closed me into myself, and in myself, I couldn't conceive morning.
But you see, I am here, writing, today, and that shining, gleaming knife will be washed and placed in the knife block--an inanimate object with potential energy, abandoned for another exhausting day.
Tonight, Shannon is visiting. She's had a horrible day, and the voices inside her head are cruel, I think. Bruce will wait anxiously tonight to hear from a potential job tomorrow. And I will do some writing. I did manage, last night, to catch some words--they are stuck in the sweet, metallic smell of blood.