Sep. 8, 2016
A little man wearing a bow tie, and possibly a fez, scurries into the middle of the frame clutching a clapboard. Breathing heavily he hoists the clapboard up to chest height. He holds the clapper up then brings down while slurring "This is a blog post about not having a clue, take 43". He exits to the right of the frame.
My feet are hot. The bed seems too small. Why are my feet always too hot on nights like these? I bet I could sleep if my feet weren't so hot.
The ‘writer’ flicks on a lamp in a dark lounge room. He sets up laptop down at the desk, arcs up the lid. He fetches a mug of milk. Tents his hands, wearily rubs his eyes and tries to type out the ideas that were keeping him awake.
I think it was the twenty minutes I spent composing a poem for our neighbours. The ones who think that because they can't hear our television, we must need to be able to hear theirs. It was actually a pretty cool poem. I thought about flooding the bedroom with light and tapping it into my phone. But each cool start slithers off into the darkness. After a while I can't remember any of it.
I listen to some music. An album that I might write about as an understated classic. I keep hearing little bits that I've never noticed before. Not fair. This is supposed to be a chill album that I'm supposed to ignore, aural wallpaper that leaves me tangled up in my headphones when I wake up at 3AM. But nice little meandering piano line though.
I'm so tired I have to do something. Did I mention that my feet were really hot?
The ‘writer’ feels down to his feet. He grimaces and nods to himself, they're still pretty warm.
I feel frustrated that I can't sleep but there have been enough nights like this in my life for me to know that I can't just lie there with hot feet. Seriously though, I have really hot feet right now. I don't feel like I'm mentioning it enough.
Earlier on in the evening I told Ingrid that I felt so tired that I didn't know what I was doing anymore. As in anything at all. I feel like a sprite-version of Matthew running across a Super Mario platform level constantly butting into giant blocks with question marks on.
I start to imagine a giant block of ice resting on my feet. It has precisely fifty-seven gazillion question marks laser etched into it. I figure that from certain angles it must split white light into rainbows. It is beautiful. Or at least it would be, if it were real. My feet are still really hot.
You might expect that to be depressing or frustrating, but it's not an unhappy feeling at all. I don't feel powerless for finding the world completely unfathomable. I think it's temporary. I hope it's temporary. And even if not having a damn clue about what's going on is some sort of new normal, it doesn't really feel that bad.
The ‘writer’ finishes his milk. He looks at the bottom of the cup, as though disappointed.
And these were thoughts running around in my head, like a toy train chasing its tail on the tracks. I tried to get them down the way that they popped into my head. I even tried to write some of the poem, but that was all gone. Maybe poetry will be the thing to try next time?
Either that or I will have to put frozen peas on my burning feet. Did I mention that they are a bit hot?