Another journey by night

Some­how, everything is becom­ing vir­tual ripples, con­cent­ric circles seen in a scene on a screen in black and white. We’re typ­ing frantic­ally, back and forth and back again. Dotting our eyes and cross­ing our tees until our fin­gers over­whelm us and our blurred vis­ion can no longer keep up with our pathetic phys­ic­al­ity. The mind hates the body, so we push ourselves to the lim­its of sense, to the point where we have barely enough energy to cuss and curse the fact that we can­not avoid sleep forever.

Here we are, then. Wel­come to our pecu­liar patch­work, etched on the roof of the world. It flows down into the under­passes and climbs onto the fly­overs, speed­ing along side roads and tak­ing us on a crazed trip across a city that teems with people, screams with noise, and reeks of vomit, piss and alco­holic stench even at two in the morn­ing, whilst the phos­phorus glow bleeds dirty orange into the night sky. Every­one should be asleep, but they’re not. Not us, especially.

We hit the sub­urbs, blindly fol­low­ing the clat­ter­ing rail routes to the out­skirts. Here, pure instinct takes over, and we instantly know the win­dows we’re look­ing for because of the tell-tale signs of flut­ter­ing and agit­a­tion in the cur­tains. Remem­ber, you can’t hide the dis­order beneath, no mat­ter how much you try. Break glass to sound the alarm, but don’t be alarmed because they will be expect­ing unwel­come guests des­pite the late­ness of the hour. Ready? Come with, come with us.

Hurry, hurry more, because time is not our friend. This long night is against us. So we’re off again and away, cross­ing oceans to for­eign corners bathed in sun­light and dif­fer­ent sea­sons. As we land, we rub our eyes against the bright­ness and unfa­mili­ar­ity that pierces and burns such sal­low Brit­ish skin. Again, there are no guess­ing games needed here, because junk shops in need of repair and cry­ing out for a return to order look the same the world over, even if the make­shift signs say they’re closed for business.

Finally, our minds — already more alike than we care to admit — become as one. We’re inex­tric­ably meshed and bound, hov­er­ing near the ceil­ing. True enough, we’re still sep­ar­ated by more miles than we could pos­sibly cal­cu­late, yet across the dis­tance our fin­gers are clasped tight, dig­ging into flesh that is as unfa­mil­iar to the touch as it is famil­iar to the senses.

Listen to us. Listen and under­stand, just for once in your lives and cer­tainly the only occa­sion in ours. We’re not depend­ent, because we’re the sort who are hard-faced and tough as old boots. as weathered as beaten leather. We learnt long ago not to depend on any­one or any­thing, but we’re cling­ing on for dear bloody life right now. Hold­ing, just about. Just hold­ing on.

Do you con­vulse in your sleep? Does your body try to jerk itself into wake­ful­ness? Does your psyche show you sights that naus­eate yet fas­cin­ate, which glue you to the spot and pre­vent you avert­ing your bruised gaze? Do you kick and flail and scratch and bite and throw and hit and retch? Do you shout into the holes that open up above your head and beneath your feet? Do you plead with them to stop, who­ever they are? Please place a mark in all the boxes that apply. Tick, tick and tick.

I know you do, because I do too. So does she. He does as well. All of us.

Sit­ting in a pool of sweat and shivers at 4:48am, wait­ing for dawn to break, it always feels too quiet. Deathly quiet. The last per­son you want for com­pany is your­self. Yet listen care­fully, press an ear against the cold wall, and it’s pos­sible to hear a thou­sand hearts beat­ing the same fren­zied rhythm, a thou­sand words say­ing that it was just a night­mare, and a thou­sand whis­pers caress­ing an unkempt mind.

Comments: 24

    abso­lute magic. every last word. Your words have that insight to take a step back and view everything under a dif­fer­ent light, painting…a dif­fer­ent tainting.

    maybe you should lead the night-time revolution…

    Miles Away | 07.21.07, 21:39

    riv­et­ing, to the last full stop.

    callisto | 07.21.07, 21:48

    I under­stand some pieces of this more than oth­ers. Much, much more. But I shall see your 4.48, and raise you a 3.39.

    Miss Vertigo | 07.21.07, 22:26

    Miles Away — ‘Night-Time Revolu­tion­ary Leader’ does have a cer­tain ring to it, I have to say.

    Cal­listo — Thank you. I quite like end­ing posts with a rivet, too.

    Miss Ver­tigo — Occa­sion­ally my posts are a little more see-through, it’s true. And 3:39 has as pleas­ing a ring to it as 4:48, yes.

    An Unreliable Witness | 07.21.07, 22:37

    I want to avoid sleep forever, tak­ing res­pite only through your words.

    Ani | 07.21.07, 22:54

    Ani — I would advise no one to take com­plete res­pite in only my words. But, well, if what I choose to write pro­tects from sleep for even a little while, and helps to make the sleep that hope­fully fol­lows rather more peace­ful, that is an honour.

    An Unreliable Witness | 07.21.07, 23:41

    I tagged you. I don’t even do tags. Please do not indulge me. It’s because I’m so trau­mat­ised by the death of Harry Potter.

    Oh, sorry, did I give that away?

    Rules are made to be broken.

    Katie | 07.22.07, 02:55

    Katie — Harry?! DEAD?! For that awful, dread­ful news, I am simply not going to do your meme. So there.

    An Unreliable Witness | 07.22.07, 04:46

    I would swear we have never met, and yet.….…..

    Thank you for shar­ing in your unique way. I’m look­ing for­ward to return­ing for your next piece.

    Have a great day

    Lucy | 07.22.07, 05:57

    harry pot­ter is not dead. she’ll run out of money — hav­ing spent it on liquor and love — and have to write another dozen or so where it’ll be revealed that it was just all a dream he had while on an opium binge. all this, of course, to teach chil­dren that drugs are bad and sex will surely kill you — if not from lit­eral heart­break than from the ego assas­sin­a­tion at hav­ing god get credit for your handi­work. the pub­lish­ers will of course object, and it’ll be mod­i­fied to be just like that “who shot JR” epis­ode in the dal­las tele­vi­sion show of yore.

    inter­lude to the import­ant news of the day:

    the minds are not unkempt. the entropy is just a com­fort­ing mask for the sear­ing mean­ing­less­ness of it all. what would sis­yphus do if indeed his boulder were taken away? what would there be left to do, assum­ing of course that he knows how to do some­thing else.

    why yes, i am a pro­fes­sional nihilist.

    kermit | 07.22.07, 07:25

    Lucy — Wel­come, and thanks.

    Ker­mit — Har­riet Pot­ter. Mark my words, it’ll hap­pen. What JK Rowl­ing needs to do is give it all up and become a pro­fes­sional nihil­ist, I think.

    An Unreliable Witness | 07.22.07, 10:09

    And the next day the work col­leagues think you have had a rip roar­ingly mag­ni­fic­ant time due to the bags under your eyes; those who you do know in the flesh & blood don’t really know you at all.

    clarissa | 07.22.07, 12:59

    My mind loves the body, and though I don’t like to sleep at night, when it’s quiet and peace­ful, I sleep like a baby when I do. Shit! I feel so left out! Does years of past hate­ful insom­nia count?

    Z | 07.22.07, 14:35

    Mr Wit­ness,

    Thank you. That was what I was hop­ing you would say. I hate tags, me.

    Katie | 07.22.07, 14:42

    Clarissa — And then they ask that ques­tion about what you did at the week­end, and you feel the social pres­sure to make up some­thing inter­est­ing. Rather than the truth. I have been there and, indeed, bought the t-shirt.

    Z — Fol­low­ers of past hate­ful insom­nia are most wel­come. The rest of us will think of you when we’re still awake.

    Katie — I only intend to be tagged when I’m dead. On my big toe, naturally.

    An Unreliable Witness | 07.22.07, 14:45

    an unkempt mind.” — surely that’s the best sort? There’s some­thing ter­ri­fy­ingly dull about the thought of a kempt one. Even a tidy mind should have its unten­ded bits round the back.

    Melograna | 07.23.07, 00:26

    Melo­grana — You’re abso­lutely right, of course. Unkempt minds are undoubtedly the best vari­ety. It’s just that, some­times — only some­times — I find myself caught up in the com­monly held belief that says oth­er­wise, that says we should be of sound and ordered mind. Yes, I know. It’s rubbish.

    An Unreliable Witness | 07.23.07, 20:25

    The mind hates the body”

    I have a sud­den urge to have another cup of cof­fee and stay up all night, read­ing that book on obscure anarchic poetry I’ve kept put­ting off and tinker­ing with a pro­saic adverb of my own here and there.

    Oh, and also I’m going to steal this post and tell every­one I wrote it.

    ben | 07.24.07, 00:58

    I miss your eye­lid days.

    So there.

    Angelalala | 07.24.07, 01:35

    Ben — I sym­path­ise. I keep being told to stay up all night (not neces­sar­ily to read obscure anarchic poetry, more likely to write it), and I would be only too happy to oblige if my eye­lids would only co-operate. So please have an extra strong cof­fee on me.

    Angelelala — I mnntioned eye­lids. There. Just there. Just above here. Did you see? But fear not, eye­lids will undoubtedly return at some point. As they say — you can’t keep a good eye­lid down.

    An Unreliable Witness | 07.24.07, 06:19

    Tick, tick and tick. Thank you, from my own unkempt mind.

    fiona | 07.24.07, 12:54

    Ye gods, the talent!!!

    fellow journeyer | 07.24.07, 16:14

    tick

    Peach | 07.24.07, 17:51

    Fiona & Peach — Tick.

    Fel­low Jour­neyer — Thank you and wel­come. Oh, and by all means thank the gods whilst you’re at it.

    An Unreliable Witness | 07.24.07, 21:13

Leave a comment