(Un-)Ruhe #5 — resting

(Un-)Ruhe #5 — resting

von Pau Krieg

I awa­ke from vio­lent dreams and feel over­whel­med by the crea­ti­ons of my own mind.

A sen­se of sepa­ra­ti­on sett­les in when I dig my fin­gers into my blan­ket, the crumpling

sound and soft­ness under my fin­gers giving me pro­of of my waking. Still, I cannot

move on.

As I lay awa­ke with my eyes open, struggling to focus them, see­ing not­hing beyond

the images of the night. I tell mys­elf the­se ghast­ly visi­ons aren’t who I am. I feel they

do reflect some of my pain. Perhaps this exp­lains why they are so hard to let go of.

How nice it would be if I could chan­nel the­se thoughts of crea­ti­on into something

pro­found and posi­ti­ve. A poem, a drawing, a col­la­ge of moments.

I want to hold mys­elf as I wake up, tell mys­elf it will be okay but… I can’t. Dishonesty

feels ent­i­re­ly super­fluous when its ori­gin and reci­pi­ent are both yourself. I don’t have

the strength left that is requi­red for such an act of deceit. All of it employ­ed to handle

the dream or “sim­ply” push it away. If we car­ry on with a poli­cy of hones­ty: the­re is

no sim­pli­ci­ty in it, just a drai­ning neces­si­ty. I’m awa­re the­re is no choice but to move.

Car­ry on with my day. All my dreams still stick though, no way for me to peel them

off my naked skin. Shoul­de­ring them, a noti­ce­ab­le weight on my heart as I pour my

tea.

The day is just befo­re me. I need to think of the next step. Strike a thing off my todos.

I make the con­scious effort to pull my atten­ti­on away from the tight­ness in my

chest. Redi­rect my focus. Push the images back. It feels as if a frac­tion of the strength

I should’ve reco­ve­r­ed as I was slee­ping has alrea­dy dimi­nis­hed as I blin­ked open my

eyes. Ano­t­her part used up by my attempt of move­ment, with a weight drag­ging me

to the ground, begging for a dream­less night.

I must’ve stood up. My mind so dis­trac­ted, bare­ly regis­tering my own body.

The minu­tes melt away.

I see a swal­low gli­de across the chimney,

as I glance out­side the window.

I turn and move on in my attempt to be a person,

part of me stays,

wai­t­ing for ano­t­her bird.