I usually say no. I live sort of simply; I live in my bedroom and I get out when I get out. This week I spent most of my hours sleeping. I would be awake and then I would drift back down to my bed. It’s complicated; I work from my bed because there’s nowhere else and then I fall asleep. This week’s been worse than most. The drugs won’t let me sleep at night (that is the first factor) and then I make up for the sleep during the day (second factor) and it all leads back to this: 3 am and reading things on the Internet.
I always wonder if my musings mean anything, if by trying so fucking hard to depict this pain, this life, I am doing any good. I mean, I get comments and emails and they are always gracious and supportive, and they say it means something. Maybe it’s me who doesn’t feel fulfilled.
What I wrote last Friday is probably the closest I’ve come to saying what I need to say, about life in pain. That it dials me down. Like a drug, it transforms my experience, and because of the filter, I’m not sure what’s real.
It’s past 3 now. I looked out my window to find the voice. The voice was real; it was coming from a woman, walking the alley between my building and the building behind me. She was singing, and then she stopped. I looked to find her but I don’t see very well without my glasses. It’s dangerous, walking at night in LA. It’s not like New York. This is not a place to walk at night at 3 am, and I wonder if she was singing because she was scared.
I understand. I hum when I am nervous or embarrassed. I hope she’s okay.
I hope she was walking home.