My sleep this week has been restless, disjointed, and full of dreams. Lucid dreams, at that. Because I've been waking up so much in the night, sporadically and half-way, my dreams have mixed with reality to the point where I can't always tell what's a vision and what's not. It's all been fine until the wee hours of this morning, when I got back from the bathroom (I think I had just gotten up, hadn't I?) and passed a masked man in my room. The kicker, ironically legless, was the laughing horse head.
You may now commit me.
I would rock a straight jacket.
Boyfriend's early morning texts, and the ability to say "my dreams were terrible" out loud, calmed me. So did the hot coffee he brought to my door 20 minutes later. Anita says, "Keep him". You know what, Anita? I think I will.
I've been thinking a lot this week of goals and their purpose, and purpose in and of itself. Am I fulfilling mine? I've begun to wonder. The edit on my book is underway, and I'm writing more now than I have been in recent months. I've been thinking seriously about things like soup kitchens, hiking, and travel. My finances are actually in order, for the most part. But what if I die tomorrow? Will my purpose have been met? Does purpose extend posthumously?
I suppose I want my life to mean something, and I want to die when I'm old. I want more time to conquer the nights and revel in early morning coffees; I want more time to know what I am for.
|Sophie Blackall; Bedtime.|