30
I lay awake, sinking into the typical nightly routine. Thoughts. Scrambled. Different streams that intermingle and grow muddy. Even though my thinking has always been manic, I used to be so disciplined. I could direct my focus. But either my brain doesn’t have the same capacity it used to, or I have much more to try to keep ordered, or it’s a combination of both and all that remains is a tired sort of anarchy. I used to think lots more about my writing. That would override everything else. Narrative would write itself in my head. But that voice is softer now. Or perhaps it’s not as insistent, or zealous.…
16
I lay awake and listen to the sounds of the night. The ringing in my ears – that constant single frequency. The sound that exists under it – a dull roar, like holding a seashell to your ear, only the report’s so low it’s almost inaudible. The hiss of air from my CPAP machine. My own shallow breathing. Sometimes I hear other things, like little footsteps charging over the roof. Possums. Well, it has to be. When I’m in my study, it’s not unusual to hear them leap onto the fence in the backyard. Or, sometimes, if I have friends over, when I escort them out late at night, we…