Train Of Thought

I can feel it sit right on the back of my eyeballs, hanging off something there that I wish wasn't. I should be asleep. I need to be asleep. But I am not. Of course I am not. I gave in again to that false pleasure of having a nap in the afternoon cause I was so bored and tired that I thought hell a nap is at least better than fighting my lids in front of a computer screen that's just that bit too bright and a sandwich I can't taste. I knew when I was cycling home that I wasn't paying attention properly. I know those roads too well. It's hypnotic. I sink into my thoughts like nothing can touch me and I wallow in there. One day I'll get knocked off that bike. If I'm lucky enough to come to with any sense I know I wont even remember what colour the car was, never mind the number plate, but I'll sure as hell remember what crap memory I was dredging up, and who that idiot was I was arguing with for the millionth time. That's what I do now. Even though I'm exhausted. Shit. I lie here and I do my best and I try my relaxation technique that my life depends upon and sometimes it works but hell sometimes my mind is just bent on playing games. Or rather I'm bent on playing games with it. The Buddha probably says something different. I catch myself doing it now, but that makes me even more frustrated. Even more awake. Like I shouldn't be thinking that way or something, like I'm broken, but I know that I'm not really broken, this is just what my brain sounds like. Like I said, Buddha may know different. All I know is I'm lain here and I've done my breathing all right and I've counted my limbs off one by one and each piece of my body till it tingles all over and still there is always something. Still I find myself too eager with the shovel and before I know it I'm digging deep, way deep down into that old grey matter and I'm flinging chunks all over the show and each sodden chunk drips with him or her or them or it and a thousand and one arguments that I had before and each time I say something else just different. Maybe it's a word or even a whole sentence or maybe by now I even feel differently about the whole thing it was so long ago and I'm trying to be nice and a martyr and patch it all up and now I'm the hero and everyone got it wrong and I am forgiven for all my sins. I am a hero. But no, I'm no hero, and they are not villains. Simply human and we get into these wired situations and it feels like it is the first time and this never happened before but then I get matching this time to other times and even though they are different, of course they are different, fundamentally they are the same and the matching becomes a new game of it's own. Like I said, simply human. I'd love a valium or maybe two of them strong co-codomols, just to get the edge off so I can drift off and quit writhing around in this grey sludge. I know that aint the right way to go though, it's not worth the lack of mind and the metallic taste that comes in the morning with those sorts of sleeps. It's not worth missing the alarm. Nope, I'll just stick with my current lack of mind thanks or rather the live burial within it that I am partial to. Maybe just another cigarette instead, swap metallic taste for dull taste. From these sweet, sweet, rotten cigarettes I'm sure I'm going to quit any day now. Switch my focus to that as I puff away in the dark, how I almost quit once, how I lasted six months, how I then fooled myself, pretending I wasn't smoking when really I was and the habit was sat waiting for me, right where I left it. Just as long as I get some sleep. Maybe I'll tell myself a little story, nice and easy, not too prissy, not quite unicorns nor saucy mischief neither cause that just gets me riled and I really want to sleep now. Something soft, maybe one of those places I know I've been to before. Maybe that place where the cut crystals rise and the water is the colour of an echo.