gingerlyfoolish.blogspot.com
Gingerly Foolish: The Waking Dead.
http://gingerlyfoolish.blogspot.com/2010/06/waking-dead.html
Post tenebras, lux. Monday, June 14, 2010. I've finally had three nights of decent sleep: only mildly disturbing dreams, only a few instances of waking up with a bout of chest-crushing panic. I couldn't sleep in my bed anymore. I slept on the couch, huddled under a fleece blanket clutching a worn old teddy bear. The only way to know whether or not I had slept was to decide if what I remembered was possible; had I just gone camping in Arizona? No, then, I had indeed managed to secure an hour's sleep.
gingerlyfoolish.blogspot.com
Gingerly Foolish: Nightmares.
http://gingerlyfoolish.blogspot.com/2010/09/nightmares.html
Post tenebras, lux. Wednesday, September 15, 2010. I sleep on my couch. I can't bear to sleep in my bed anymore; haven't for months. Waking up in a panic is easier here, I remember where I am more quickly, can curl up into the firmness of the couch, press myself into it and feel myself shaking, notice the spasms of fear, try and calm them. I miss refreshing sleep. Posted by Miss Lazarus. George Orwell, “Why I Write". Staying and meeting family in Holland. Rose trees, said Alice. Cut Up Poems 4.
gingerlyfoolish.blogspot.com
Gingerly Foolish: Sorrows.
http://gingerlyfoolish.blogspot.com/2011/04/sorrows.html
Post tenebras, lux. Monday, April 11, 2011. I am wracked with the sorrow of memory. It heaves forth, it whirls sickly-sweet in my stomach. But it is good. The memories want to leave. Like ghosts, they must want to depart; we cannot compel them. I am afraid, though: petrified. If they spill out of me and dissolve upon contact with the air, then will I be empty? Posted by Miss Lazarus. George Orwell, “Why I Write". Staying and meeting family in Holland. Rose trees, said Alice. Cut Up Poems 4.
gingerlyfoolish.blogspot.com
Gingerly Foolish: Heavy.
http://gingerlyfoolish.blogspot.com/2010/05/heavy.html
Post tenebras, lux. Saturday, May 1, 2010. I am heavy with sleep. My body is numbing out from the edges inward, cells turning over to rest. I wonder, sometimes, if my cells feel the same sadness as I, if they twitch and itch with the anxiety of sleepless nights, if they mourn as I do. I sink into the weight of my mattress, bones filled with concrete-marrow. Posted by Miss Lazarus. George Orwell, “Why I Write". Staying and meeting family in Holland. Rose trees, said Alice. Cut Up Poems 4.
gingerlyfoolish.blogspot.com
Gingerly Foolish: Sunstrong.
http://gingerlyfoolish.blogspot.com/2010/10/sunstrong.html
Post tenebras, lux. Wednesday, October 6, 2010. It is crisp and sunny today, and my heart is all a-flutter with the newness of autumn. I feel content. How strange. Posted by Miss Lazarus. I like you content. January 20, 2011 at 9:52 PM. Writing [.] is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. George Orwell, “Why I Write". Rose trees, said Alice.
gingerlyfoolish.blogspot.com
Gingerly Foolish: Asphyxia.
http://gingerlyfoolish.blogspot.com/2010/05/asphyxia.html
Post tenebras, lux. Thursday, May 20, 2010. I woke up this morning choking again, struggling to cough and clear my airways, the ones all clogged by nightmares and dry air. I find it hard to speak. The words in my mouth are all wrong; they taste bitter. I'm afraid that I'll die in my sleep with secrets on my tongue, heart all parched and arid. Afraid of the dark, I cuddle my blankets under my chin and protect my little larynx as I fall back into the agony of sleeplessness. Posted by Miss Lazarus.
gingerlyfoolish.blogspot.com
Gingerly Foolish: Static.
http://gingerlyfoolish.blogspot.com/2010/04/static.html
Post tenebras, lux. Saturday, April 17, 2010. My room is too quiet at night, too full of the ambient emotional static of insomnia. I start to hear my heart buzz. My skin rattles with hypnagogic jerks. Feet are hiccuping like railway spines. I sleep with one arm crossed across my body, the hand cradling my ribs. The other hand is pressed against my belly, as though I am trying to staunch a wound. Time to shut the lights out and try again for sleep. Posted by Miss Lazarus. George Orwell, “Why I Write".
