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  • Jason Haskins

Sleepwalk (they say)


Sleepwalk (they say)


All up in the headspace and looking for the doldrums to be rattled loose. Or are they cobwebs that need to be blown away to the nether reaches of the soul?


"Time will tell," they say.


Holding onto time is an act that stretches from days to weeks, weeks to months and so on. Walking through the days in a haze, lost somewhere between memories and dreams. Eyes glazed over, puffy and red underneath. Hair mussed and greasy. Both are of little concern when trapped in a fortress of loneliness. Solitude multiplied by heartache, with a dash of yearning and a pinch of regret to boot. All swirling, carefully harbored within and ready to burst at a moment's notice.


"Hand yourself over to embracing each day," they say.


Embracing a repetitive cycle where time is stuck. A year has been blurred and blended, leading to a forgetfulness that has rarely been experienced in a lifetime. A cacophony of sameness in which the only voices are heard shouting from within. Quietness extends into oblivion and serious doubt creeps in that the vocal chords even work anymore. Chancing it, a scream in unleashed into the void. Thankfully, sounds emit, providing temporary relief and bringing respite to the wounded, knowing the facade can be broken when desired.


"Learn from the past," they say.


Reality draped in fantasy, providing cover to correctly heal. Scars from the past are meant to improve and harden, not burden like the weight of the world. Instead – fraught with nothing but time – every broken relationship, lost friendships, death of loved ones, missteps, and a general malaise are examined intricately and expertly. Walls close in each day, movement limited by the stellar stucco. Memories are replayed on a tired loop. The space shared, the laughs enjoyed, and the tears that have been shed. Tears that flow long after there should be anything left to give. Tragedy compounded with interest. Smiles disappear.


"Reach out. We'll be there," they say.


Feet shuffle in non-dramatic fashion, moving the body from point A to point B with no real certainty of being awake or being asleep. Hours all feel the same, whether the sun shines or the sky weeps, whether star-filled or glossy black. Desire clamped down by fear. Or possibly regret. Or probably a mixture of both and the hopes that one day things will be better and the sleepwalking can be easier.


"We are all but mere mortals," they say.


Constant. Days tumble by, blinked from existence with no second thought and given over to the realm of what once was and what was never meant to be. A hammer, chipping away at the barriers so carefully constructed. Slipping further and further into the mind as intimacy, human contact, and friendship crumble among the chaos. Where has the time gone? Traveling the lonely road, a single window to stare through as the world partially passes by. Frail. Alone. Looking for a connection that will bridge the two worlds. Hoping for a teeter that will one day totter. Running in place while speeding through the boredom.


Asleep.


Awake.


Tiny matters crush the soul, turning to slush. Over and over again.


"One day," they say.

Yes. Rolling over – stuck between day and night – those combination of words are the ones so desperately sought. The other side of the pillow is much cooler with that sentiment entering the heart.


A half-smile is better than none, in this sleepwalk or the other.

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