We Fight Sleep

We fight sleep. I do.

Yeah, I try and be responsible, keeping my immunity so every time I go to sleep I motivate myself to leave my mind blank.

You know what it’s like. Brain keeps running. Day before, day to come, friends, interests, interesting friends, ideas, inventions. Belated intentions to do something differently the next day, whether the plan is illogical, or possible

I don’t need sleep to dream. I dream during the day. Everything I do I do, so soon I will move to another scene between now and later, transfer these skills, be qualified, degree at my side, resume sundried, no more of my faults, no need for Adderall or amphetamine salts. I dream of the future, I dream of today, I dream about people, music, dancing, so many things rushing through my head pictures sounds ideas

I don’t have anywhere to write it down… not at night, head on a pillow.

While Im running, driving, dreams surround me, sometimes when I should be listening too, Im sorry: Dreams are life, life is dreams.

So I fight sleep.

There’s too much life to live. So I use Every minute, hour, moment, for purpose.

Unless my days are broken, they shatter forth with constant construction, shards of memories reassemble and resemble a situation, a window of familiarity to see the therapeutic clarity of my personal tv station,

my meditation makes clear the proper reaction

action acts on action, axon to axon in my cerebellum, asking each other

“this seems familiar, have we been here before?”

déjà vu true to the transfer, previous disaster plasters proficiencies on the deficiencies I’m after, an actor in my day dreams, week dreams, month dreams, life dreams, all teams plan scrimmages using images of

primitive politics passing a monument after the top of it goes outta focus I sleep til we

make it to the next destination I have to trick myself into surrender.

So, yes, I fight sleep. And I think you do too.

We’ve all been doing it longer than we can remember. How many babies do you know that can go to sleep right away, without fighting it?

Nothing’s changed.

I’m gonna fall asleep someday, we all do. But until then, I’ve got more than enough dreams to get me through the night.

You. Are. Art

I made a discovery, it hovers over me, a sphere floating from my crown up and around my atmosphere, that, in a moment may have changed how my eyes tolerate and ameliorate their various stimuli. 

Every person is a work of art.

This may sound cliché, I’m sure I’ve heard it before, but today I internalized the definition, it’s now in my head, solidified, a new color gel film over the spotlights from my irises and pupils.

Every person is a work of art.

 

The shape of their body, the color of their countenance, hair up, down, going, gone, 

gravitational pull from their hot bod or non-laudable geometry.

Art is separated into the dynamic and static: the static presents its entire self, naked and nervous, after which it allows the viewer to receive the artistic segments and pieces. 

Paintings, architecture, a coliseum of grandeur taking hours to walk throughout.

These are static. You see the sum, then encounter the parts.

The dynamic, presented in pieces, in time, line by line, seconds rhyme or contradict past motif, 

all assemble and resemble the final craft. Music, dance, poetry, moment by moment we receive notes, steps, words; with each interval we gain a new puzzle piece to place, until we construct the ultimate form.

What could be more dynamic of an art than people? 

Is there anyone EVER who could say they knew everything about another person? 

Even if we wanted, could we ever show someone everything at once, and then allow him or her to scrutinize the pieces? Even if you knew EVERYTHING about someone… Wait a day. 

Do you still know it all?

 We are never opaque. We are never solid.

Every moment you are, 
you. are. art.

...and not a painting, not a structure, but

 you are choreography, you are music,

you are poetry verses spoken by your actions, clothes, voice, and experience.

You are a never ending song,

your existence is a symphony in as many movements as you can dance.

The world is not a museum, red velvet rope protecting you from onlookers,

It is a concert hall, curtains never closed,

it is a dance club, beats bumping bodies and ripping clothes

it is teens spitting and speaking on top of a parking garage, expression flying from roof to roof. 

You

Are

ART

This is all speculation, I have no proof. I do, however, believe that this is truth.

And, as such, if I’m right, I look forward to free concerts every moment of every day and every night.