They say there’s no catching up on sleep, and it must be true.

In three decades I have only gotten “enough” sleep for maybe a month. 

Nights I stay up shouting, crying, letting the Void emerge from under these chewed up ribs and tear apart my day and life and work, shred the love I have for whoever is before me, and if there is no love there, beware. 

Mornings I wake up howling and pointing fingers. I make demands and force march my comrades to a dizzying beat of efficiency. 

Somewhere between noon, the zenithing sun, and dinner bell time I sag like sheets on a line. But it’s nothing a little espresso can’t tweak back to life. 

I stop eating early, so I’m light enough to fly, and glance at the pillow: curse its call and softness. When I yield, that pillow has earned it.

Painting is Insomnia by Liubou Sas