The future, that irrational and ungoverned animal, wakes him up in the middle of the night with the harsh noise of his hooves, hard with anxiety.
What is to come, this possibility of happening, this still faceless thing, this draft of the dream, this project half-baked by the rush of desire, invades his room, rips apart his sleep and catches fire in the dark and to the silence of the sweaty sheets of anguish.
The uncertainty of tomorrow lies with him as soon as he opens the bed. The teasing lies at his feet like a dog with a muzzle, for now tamed by the tranquilizer, tamed by the need to sleep for a few hours.
And at first he sleeps, rests his bones and ground flesh from the days, heavy, sickly, one after the other, in which nothing is resolved and everything is postponed. It feels good to sleep, calm your nerves, ease your restlessness, forget the crisis, the disappointments, the truths and the weight of existence. It feels good to entertain your brain with the emptiness of your first sleep. But his brain, swollen with melancholy, hurts him like tight shoes.
Thinking is an eternal journey and the pillow is a road to climb.
The first hours, three or four, are an anesthetic, a tender illusion of a mother patting his head, a sweet imagination of massages on his shoulders and neck, a reward given to the heart for the sacrifices of always being, bloodied, at the heels, hitting the pale and painful walls of his chest.
It seems as if the body will, throughout the night, remain inert, soft, finding the strength to face the vile day.
Apparently inert, apparently soft. But behold, the sharp nails of unrest begin to scratch thoughts and consciousness, animate concerns, wake up disappointments, shake off frustrations. They pull out the pustule from the wound that doesn’t heal and the pain returns, the pain awakens because the dog has woken up and no longer has a muzzle to hold back the anger in its teeth.
Turn the other way. He tries to deceive destiny, take a deep breath, adjust the pillow, wipe off the sweat, swallow the heart that is already in his mouth. The walls shrink, the ceiling drops, there is no longer any air anywhere, it is a tomb that the night opens at dead hours. Rise up in time before you die.
Turn on the bedside light and open your eyes. At a glance, she sees the fears crawling under the bed like snakes made of shadow. There they will lie in wait until their eyelids close again.
He focuses on plans, projects, life goals and tries not to think, but thought is the bed he made.
The light calms him. Breathe better. It doesn’t shake so much. On top of the dresser, facing him like protective saints, photographs of his family give him a bit of stillness. He gets up, turns on all the lights, creates a sun inside the house.
It’s four in the morning and insomnia makes him chamomile tea.
