The Fine Art of Frying Eggs
I live in the place between wakefulness and oblivion, where a minute can pass in an hour, a night in a blink. It’s been a decade since my last restful sleep. I’d say it’s been a decade since I’d last slept at all, but that would be a lie. I’m not an insomniac. There is a cacophony of voices in my head keeping me from sleep like neighbours fighting loudly all night long every night. I think the voices will drive me crazy, but they’re waiting for the most opportune moment to initiate my total meltdown. The voices are seldom quiet, and most active at night. They’re incessant, replaying the same tired monologue, but it’s no repeated loop of unwavering cadence, and the banter varies in diction, in delivery, in detail. This night is aggravated, rather, I am aggravated in the night by the unassailable need to piss. It’s not the aging, grumpy prostate urge with its remarkable pain and effort for a picolitre of waste. My stream thunders into the late night bowl. I don’t even care if the neighbours hear any more. Let it wake them. Let them be as sleepless and disarrayed as I. If you can’t hear my voices, hear my pee. I am Misery, won’t you join me for a cup of tea?