July 24

Oppressive heat.  Heavy heat.  Insidious heat.  Numbing humidity lays a thin sheen of moisture over the skin, quietly deadening and numbing the mind and the will.  Both have already been fully assaulted by the heat.  This is nature’s method of oppression. 

My sleep hasn’t been very restful.  Dreams interrupt my cycles.  A consequence, maybe, of the heat and humidity one must battle while awake and asleep.  Maybe, also, a result of intruding external city noises from leaving the window open, or subconscious stimulation from light seeping in through doors not fully closed because the heat and humidity have swelled the wood in my old building.  Maybe, even, a consequence of the white noise from the fan constantly blowing, pushing into my subconscious, or the constant feeling of air brushing over my exposed skin never allowing my nerves to completely rest.  Maybe the constant sticky film on my face as new pimples form.  Maybe the absence of a second body from my bed – or worry about them returning. 

Whatever the reason, the dreams are there, and they are not pleasant.  If they were, I would have gone back to sleep rather than stall.  I don’t recall much of these dreams.  I just remember waking up, then falling back into them, then waking up again, over and over.  When I do wake up, the core of my body hurts, like it has gone through a mild workout.  It hurts like it has experienced constant activity ever since lying down initially.  Constant.  No relaxation. 

I toss and turn but each position only offers a millisecond of peace before the restlessness returns.  Relaxing, or trying to relax, settles me back into the muck of unsettled dreams.  They suck me down and force me to struggle, to resurface and start the cycle again. 

Even now, sleep tempts me.  It will win too, because the dreams aren’t that bad, but they’ll start soon after I’ve nodded off.  In the morning, when I wake for the fourth or fifth time and think that it absolutely has to be nine or ten because I’ve been working so hard to sleep for so long already, I’ll wonder why I feel so tired and why it’s only six.  Then I’ll get that heavy, defeated feeling in my chest, centering between my lungs.  I’ll roll out of bed and my core will protest.  I’ll roll out of bed for the day, dejected, and allow my mind to lose what few memories remain of my dreams.  I’ll tell myself I like to get up early.  What I’ll fail to tell myself is that this statement is only true when I am fully rested.