The wall-to-wall darkness in my living room is louder than the silence of being alone on a Friday night. Bright lights from the luxury City road development outside my apartment have drawn up a radiant frame around the balcony door blind making it look like some sort of magical gateway to heaven. I can hear the wind whistling and the fridge burring from two opposite directions and I’m prisoned in the middle of them.
In my dream I thought “here” was somewhere else. But then I was wide awake again and my mind was racing fast. The usefulness of late-night thoughts evaporated long before second lockdown – back when life was headed to a certain direction darting towards future plans I’d forced myself to believe in. Whilst I have to agree with one of my selves on just how overrated future plans are, they could act as good motivators – until life decides to throw you in front of hungry lions in an antelope costume.
I burnt through most of my big plans years ago – way too quickly if you ask me now, but I was always the impatient type -, whilst the last remains of what was once hope, love and belief were drowned in holy water somewhere in the West Midlands a couple of months ago.
I’ve been tossing and turning since 9 pm. I brave the last 25% of Trevor Noah’s Born a crime one more time, but after 2 pages my eyes are closing and I can’t stop yawning. It is not Trevor, it’s me. I would date Trevor. And I would love to finish his book, but by the look of things I have to do him in daylight. So I close ibooks and put the ipad down. I shut my eyes and I yawn so hard my jaw hurts. The wind has decided to leave my silence alone for tonight and I just want to be absorbed into the night that the darkness promised me hours ago. I want to be waking refreshed to streaming East London daylight, unaware of the hours between then and now.
It’s time to re-dream my dreams.