this whole experience
[even after only one week]
has been wild
honestly
just from a ‘working a regular old 9-5’ perspective
because, damn if i haven’t craved the weekend
with the hunger of a hundred vampires
as my only chance to truly
truly truly truly
relax
[unfortunately, this first weekend was quite…
full]
[maybe next weekend i can
sleep]
letting my brain
rest
for a second
it’s not nearly as
easy as
it sounds
away from the physical activity
that brings me joy
that saved my life
in more ways than i probably even know
prevented
by pandemic
by fear
by perfectionism
by injury
by overuse
by depression
and i just can’t seem to catch a break
though i’m trying so hard
to take a break
take a break
take a break
so i can get back to it
maybe
again
with the love
and passion
and joy
that i once found
there are things on the to-do list
but when i get the time to do them
i find myself in desperate need of rest —
either to fully pass out
on the couch
asleep as soon as
my eyes close
or
the brain rest of a video game,
and the body rest of heat pack therapy,
and the emotional rest of sitting next to a cat or a puppy —
and i completely forget everything on my
multitudes of lists
[is this just the
maybehd way???]
i know why
rip van winkle
is more of a horror story
than anything else
i get it
i do
but
sometimes i daydream of taking a nap
that lasts one hundred years
[give or take]
and that is when i finally
almost
barely
kind of
feel
any sort of
well-rested
vibe
why is writing this morning
like pulling teeth?
didn’t i go to bed early enough?
didn’t i get enough sleep?
didn’t i wake up relatively awake
and go on a walk to get the blood rushig up
from my feet
to head and hands and otherwise?
why why why is this such a struggle today?
i should really turn my computer
off
at some point,
let all the tabs i have up
rest
for an evening
or even overnight
and give the inner workings
of this overworked and overpriced
silver slip of a laptop
a moment of chill time
before turning it on again
and leaving it on
for another few
years
a night without my kip
is like seventy nights with only two hours’ sleep
is like all the comfort of a big bed and no cover for warmth to keep
is like relying on noises to lull you, and finding nighttime in extreme silence
for the first time
ever.
a night without my kip
is not a night of
rest.
i can’t concentrate today
at least not on the creative aspects of me
maybe it’s a good day
to just
rest
[if i can allow myself
simply
to be]
unawake
today of all days
of driving hours and hours
and caring for puppies
and doing adult things
and talking to fathers
and writing poetries
when my eye just wants to rest
away from screens or intensive lookings —
maybe tomorrow will be
less painful
in the iris
kipventures 