one - an excerpt in insomnia

I hate my bed. I hate the pillows, already smelling of my head, I hate the sheets, more and more laced with friction, and I hate the entire horizontalness of it, as if I’m caught heaving up from my baggy lungs to the roots of my acute-and-sensitive belly-button pinpoint half-prick to my brain that is the most tense of all and which I can almost hear going tick-tock, tick-tock, and I sneeze just thinking about what I’m lying inside of, course fabrics, too much for these tiny hair follicles and the cracks in the skin. Thinking about it, the tiny hair follicles are tiny, and for that sensitive, wired right to my brain, catching every breath of movement, every twitch that I have ceased to monitor carefully – fucking alarming how seriously I take all of this, such a wide awake in the almost-morning, such a monologue, using the word ‘hate’, who do I think I am? but there’s no other way to look at it already twisting here for over an hour, and still my heart thump-thumps as if I’m not breathing, as if I had conscious lung-control, full run of the buttons, and then forgot all about it. Maybe I’m not breathing. I am aware - that I am sweating. I can’t tell which is more tense, though, my head or my neck or where they intersect, they won’t let me sink, they won’t give - at all - a plank of wood, but almost shaking (strange) – tense (strange) – for all its brilliant world-shattering work it will not rest. Ha ha ha ha.