When something starts, you have to take things at value for a while, because you don't have any reason to do otherwise. Catering for every eventuality all the time just slows you up. As time goes on, you get a context, you come to understand how things are weighted, you learn to predict and suspect more accurately. Things become less linear, more fragmented, and control becomes a fantasy. An all-important fantasy, but a fantasy all the same.
When things get out of control, though, there's nothing you can do but react, and I hoped I'd be back by the time that happened. Maybe you think it's been too impressive so far, and perhaps you're right. I could defend myself, say it isn't easy, reacting all the time, running all the time, but I won't because that's not the point.
The point is too deep, too personal and too small to explain.
The point is not for spectators.
Nothing that's important, really important, looks impressive, because it only means something to the person that does it. Staying alive, for example, not dying: it looks so easy, but sometimes it's almost too difficult to do.
I wrapped my thoughts up neatly, finished them, put them to bed. I wanted them in order, for sleep can be very like death. It can be death itself, in fact.
I was not going to sleep tonight. Someone had to watch over you and wake you from such dreams as they might come. Someone had to play hero, had to know that little bit more, had to be that tiny step ahead that keeps the story moving. And always, in my life, that someone is me.
I'd like to sleep sometimes, watched over. I'd like to feel that someone guards my dreams and is there ready to touch my hand and help me. I'd like to be the one who reaches out to be comforted, to be loved. Someone who stretches for the embrace of a sun it knows will be forever warm. But it can't be like that. Why? You'll see, perhaps. Only if it's relevant.
So I wasn't going to sleep that night, or the next day.
But every day, I dream.
When things get out of control, though, there's nothing you can do but react, and I hoped I'd be back by the time that happened. Maybe you think it's been too impressive so far, and perhaps you're right. I could defend myself, say it isn't easy, reacting all the time, running all the time, but I won't because that's not the point.
The point is too deep, too personal and too small to explain.
The point is not for spectators.
Nothing that's important, really important, looks impressive, because it only means something to the person that does it. Staying alive, for example, not dying: it looks so easy, but sometimes it's almost too difficult to do.
I wrapped my thoughts up neatly, finished them, put them to bed. I wanted them in order, for sleep can be very like death. It can be death itself, in fact.
I was not going to sleep tonight. Someone had to watch over you and wake you from such dreams as they might come. Someone had to play hero, had to know that little bit more, had to be that tiny step ahead that keeps the story moving. And always, in my life, that someone is me.
I'd like to sleep sometimes, watched over. I'd like to feel that someone guards my dreams and is there ready to touch my hand and help me. I'd like to be the one who reaches out to be comforted, to be loved. Someone who stretches for the embrace of a sun it knows will be forever warm. But it can't be like that. Why? You'll see, perhaps. Only if it's relevant.
So I wasn't going to sleep that night, or the next day.
But every day, I dream.