insomniac theatre

'Pro' wrestling is like an energy drink. sitting here guzzling away, it takes no more than 20 minutes to feel wound up. every smell, sight, and sound becomes sensory overload. colors are brighter, emotions are amplified. a wave of the hand moves mountain ranges in a thunderous lockstep. but when you finally finish the whole thing, you abruptly return to reality: this white-walled, dimly lit, thicket of solitude all juiced up, staring straight ahead at an invisible target in a serial killer gaze. the sudden transition from jeers and cheers to chirps and burps does not lower the volume of jackhammers and trains in your head. throwing on the smooth stylings of mr. leonard cohen barely close the window on the loud construction. these cerebral noises are deafening yet not distracting enough to take your eyes off their focused view on a single, indiscriminate speck on the wall you would not notice otherwise. right now, as someone says good morning in vietnam, my frantically tapping feet spit out morse code: good lord, i'm buzzed.