'Every night I dream and then I wake', by Aron Woolnough

Every night I dream and then I wake.

I dreamt of spring last night.

The wet blue day had only just begun.

A busy buzzing bee dropped into our garden

when the blossom flew across the Sun.

The blossom landed in your tucked-back hair

and the bee landed on my pale freckled arm.

It nestled between us and tickled me with it’s stinger.

You watched the sun rise and I watched you.

We never stopped smiling, but the bee buzzed off –

and then I wake with the cold bitter air by my side

and see I slept on solid dirt during the dusk. The low winter Sun drops.

I dreamt of summer last night.

The shinning white day had only just begun.

We drove to the Zoo and we gasped,

a lioness dozed under the high Sun.

She was fierce, could cut a man in half.

The ground was marked by thick claws.

The beast soundly slept as we studied it,

but we found no meaning for a lioness

and we left it for the honey bees –

and then I wake to trace the hard naked hills

and see them shaping the bloody horizon. The low winter Sun drops.

I dreamt of autumn last night.

The cool brown day had only just begun.

Dead leaves had dried to a crisp and we crunched

them under our footsteps, following the Sun

through the tree tops towards no where.

Weaving through the trunks without a path,

but everywhere we reached, there you were,

standing by my side. You kicked through the leaves

and I laughed until you left –

and then I wake as a siholuette standing against a bright white moon. The day had only just begun.

I dream of winter tonight.

The cold black day has only just begun.  

Shivered plants fade away and leave a hunger.

I am freezing without the low hanged Sun.

Lost in the darkness, searching for a light.

Hoping to find you for the rest of my life,

but only finding fright and sleepless nights.

I walk about a void under directionless stars,

the white moon slips into darkness –

and then I wake, the sun has risen and the day is hot, but my skin is still so pale.

Staring at the ceiling in the dark

This evening has been one of contemplation and evaluation of life and the events occurring within. I've been watching a lot of short films on youtube recently, all in the early stages of brainstorming up an idea. So far I'm not able to convert this philosophy into creativity.

I can't sleep at night. Its either too hot, or too rainy, or too buggy. Glitching out during the night doesn't start your day off well. You finally manage to close your eyes as the birds start singing. You look around your room and see all the death by your hand, taking the phrase 'Crushing like a bug' at its utmost literal. You sit up and consider trying to sleep or just starting the new day. You hear a sibling or parent wake up and begin theirs, when you're not sure whether to finish yours or soldier on.

I click continue, which often leads to unintentional game overs. When I sleep in the middle of the day in the heat, through sheer exhaustion, my dreams are vivid and most fierce. They become intense and rapidly decent into the realm of nightmares. Facing mortality and destruction, loss of control and violation of will on a daily basis can begin to drive you a little crazy. I was hoping my new found insanity would aid my creative flux. Though it appears to diminished all thoughts into rationalised fears and paranoia.

Driving is when its worst. I drive when I'm wide awake, but the lingering thoughts throughout the over lapping days creep in when you're only focusing on the road and the cars around you. Thoughts tease you, at the possibility of crashing, whether to wake you up or finally find a way to catch up on sleep. The illusion of power with 70mph at your fingertips can corrupt even the most innocent minds. Fortunately rationality prevails.

So far into the night, you cannot justify having music playing or a film on screen. You force yourself to sleep and eliminate all other competition. The local drunkard's drama is the only entertainment available, muffled by the pitta patter of moths drumming on your ceiling. Momentarily you'll be comfortable, time will do its thing and you will be uncomfortable. Turn your pillow for the cooler side. Turn yourself over for the cooler side. Eyelids heavy. Yawning painful. Dry throat. Dry lips. You whisper a pray for rain.

A flash of white shines into your room for a split second. You consider the possibility of aliens before lightning. A crash of thunder dispels the hopeful theory of being abducted and induced into a deep sleep. The pitta patter of moths is replaced with the heavy drops of rain striking the ground. You feel the air turn to butter, the room becomes humid and you think of your curtains more as mosquito nets. The air is cooler though.

Finally, the air is cooler. Heavy eye lids can finally rest. Deep breaths of cool air. Your body temperature returns to human levels. The rate of blinks per second increases exponentially and eventually they just remain closed. You didn't even have to think about it. A bug lands on your arm, but you don't care. Finally, sleep. Your eye lids turn from black to a redy pink for a split second. You feel yourself drifting away. A crash of thunder sounds like it personally punched you in the face.

Now every drop of rain sounds like a crash of thunder. A chorus of giants bellowing boisterously for my attention. Spitting and spluttering everywhere. You smack your arm and kill the smug bug. You find something disposable to wipe it off your skin with. You sit up and see the time is pushing 3am. You know from the last few days that sunrise is just round the corner. You know from the last few days that the birds will sing before the sun will rise and perhaps you should research just how much hunting rifles cost.

You stare up at your ceiling in the dark, same old empty feeling in your heart like you're looking at a starless sky. Hope and ideology is non-existent. As far as priority goes, the word has little meaning, as if anything other than rest could be your priority. The stubborn Earth continues to spin on its axis. Within no time at all, the croak of crows and the crack of dawn come about and inform you that another 24 hours has past. A day used to mean the interval between sleep. I'm both awake and asleep, in a perpetual state, in an unbroken cycle.

Suddenly sleep seems like an abstract concept. The routine and cycles of days and weeks become arbitrary and meaningless. What is a Saturday? What is a Tuesday? Different sets of 24 hours. Different names for the exact same interval of time. It's said that Sunday is the day of rest. I wonder if it will bring me rest or live up to its namesake and allow Sol to bring me to the boil and then leave me to simmer.


~A