Six Hours

It was a ritual. Every night, I left just before midnight. At 6 AM, I returned to 30 mg of Adderall-XR and a shower—the life source and my little orange voodoo. I played the games of normalcy. I came home and waited for the night life to begin.
The people I interacted with during the day did not know what I did at night. They assumed I slept, like everyone sleeps. Like normal people sleep.

Insomnia. When you can't sleep, your brain can't recharge. Events start to fade and blur—no longer sequential, concrete. The mind can no longer document them, chronicle them. Your life's events become like dreams—the ones that feel so real that you have a hard time distinguishing them from reality.

By midnight (at least on weekdays), the world is asleep. You drive all over town and the streets are empty. For six hours out of every day, you own the world. You are alone in civilization. Then you meet other nocturnal creatures. You find other comrades to spend these hours with. But this is all separate from the life you live in the daylight. When you come home from your life at night, you are supposed to go to sleep. You are supposed to recharge. You are supposed to live in the daylight. You are supposed to have integrity. But who does these days, really?

So that's how it started—the insomnia. When I did start to fall asleep, I often experienced sleep paralysis—a phenomenon in which the body becomes trapped between sleeping and waking. The brain is awake, but cannot control the body. Half-asleep, you discover that you can't move. You panic. It usually started with the auditory and visual hallucinations—loud, abrasive sounds with musical and rhythmic qualities accompanied by sensations of waves and brief flashes of dull colours. Sometimes you hallucinate that you have gotten out of bed and are walking. It only lasts for two minutes, and after experiencing it enough, you get used to it, but it was another reason not to sleep.

I am riding in a Pontiac Bonneville with Weimann and Thelonious. A horror movie soundtrack seeps from the radio. The orange glow of artificial light plays in and out of the vehicle. To the right are large orange-and-white construction cones. "Open your door. Open it." I am the rabbit. Thelonious opens his door. There is a slam, then laughter. "Fuck, my arm!" I sit silent, and watch the rubber rolling back and forth on the pavement in the rear-view mirror, a helpless fish kicked out of water, and I think my sympathies went out to it. I tried to focus my energy into that suffering form. Maybe I could give it some of my strength, so it wouldn't fear its fate.

We stop at the drug dealer's split-level outside of town. Power lines, fluorescent light, a gravel road. I am the woman; I wait in the car. Weimann, Thelonious, and Ignacio return with a plastic sandwich bag. I am curious as to what goes on behind those closed doors. Whispers of cocaine. The beach is a two hour drive. We have been lepers on that beach. Ignacio works in an organic food market. His apron sits next to me in the back seat, forest green. Weimann cleans kitchen ventilation and plays in a local rock band. Thelonious is some sort of entrepreneur. I am a public school student and choir accompanist. But right now, we are lepers, and nothing is more right than our flesh fading into the damp gray sand.

Weimann's head is crashing into the waves. I half-scream, half-giggle as Thelonious blows raspberries on my stomach. Ignacio has disappeared. I can feel the awkward sexual tension. Drug lust. I flex my abs. I feel my bare back press against the wet, granular mass. The sky is clear. You can see the stars.

Thelonious, Kris, and I are sitting in Thelonious' room. Passing to the left, blowing ganja smoke in all directions. Thelonious pulls me to his lips for a shotgun. Smoke exchange. It's a natural aphrodisiac, you know. "I have to be at school in three hours." Kris pulls out the snow. "C'mon, it's not that big of a deal." We do three lines apiece. Kris leaves, sensing. In an amber haze, Thelonious and I appear naked. We are hurried. Are the lights on or off? The lights are turning on and off. Thelonious is behind me. I feel nothing, and everything. Muscles contract, tighten. No sound. Then, the snow, warm, and we are lying in a white meadow. Flecks of light adorn his face. We kiss.