So this is where it gets super tricky. I do one day of writing “tick” “smiley face” and whatever other emoticons are adequate responses to ‘I’m chuffed with myself’ and then day two happens. Day two being the day I decide to sleep in (the day also being Friday).
Sleeping ‘in’ seems acceptable to me (before you ask I didn’t miss any work – just the bit where I breath before the hell starts) if you actually gain something from it. Like energy. I’m pretty sure I didn’t gain anything, except maybe a few drops extra on the sweat. I spent the night getting chased by demons. I hate getting chased by demons. For one – I know they’re never going to catch me so why do I insist on running the whole time? Point two – I wake up confused, disoriented and feeling robbed of what normal people would call rest.
Sleep to me is a further chance for my overactive imagination to come to the foreground (where it usually resides, even in the day time I have to drag my consciousness into life by giving it a good kick in the head once in a while). Day dreaming is my bread and butter pudding. The glazed look in my eyes as I’m walking across a road is the custard and the cherry on top is me walking into a room, walking out, walking in again and still not remembering what the hell I was doing.
I blame the go-to for many in the LGBTQ community – a fraught childhood. If your childhood, like mine, was one you’d rather forget – at least certain sections of it – you spent much of your time clinging to the comfort blanket of the fantastical world.
Those moments where you found yourself thinking desperately of your magical black-as-night trusty steed thundering beneath you as you ride him down the echoey gloom of your school corridor pushing aside those evil little snots of children (that spent at least five years making your life a living hell) before elegantly taking off into the chilled morning air with little more than slight toss of the mane and a canter of hooves. Your horse would speed through the air lolloping up and down a little but rescue you he did. You would grip his wiry horsehair and dig your feet into his flesh. He nor you would feel a thing.
A tormented childhood of eager escapism in books, films and slipping realities leads you to an adult life full of day-dreaming, procrastination and the high potential outcome of being fired, run over or at the very least spilling coffee on your keyboard.
Oh would you look at that? That complete sidetrack has unexpectedly allowed me to complete Day Two’s post. Spooky.
Well, an imagination is good for something, I guess.