My spotty insomnia continued last night, which was sad, and very unnerving considering I had a 6 hour guard duty shift this morning. I tried to crawl into bed at not too late an hour, but I had woken up, or at least gotten out of bed at 1 in the afternoon, so only 10 hours later I still found myself somewhat, or fully, wide awake. The lights off in the room, and half the room sounding like a cave full of bears, or half full of bears, I popped in a movie that mi madre sent to me. It's always been a favorite since I saw it, I believe if I'm not mistaken, at the El Capitan theater in Hollywood. I I don't even think I was in elementary school at the time. I can't even believe I remember that much about it, but I guess that's the power that Tombstone had on me. (my parents let me see that?)
In the same amount of time that you got ready for your Friday night, and perhaps even by the time you were on your second drink at the bar, club, disco, my Friday night film had ended. It was sometime close to one in the morning. I was still very restless. I had taken the last of the four tylenol pm's I had acquired from another cat within the platoon the night previous, which got me a good solid four hours of much needed, and thankful sleep. I messed around with Hrudey, my MacLaptop for fifteen minutes and realised I still wasn't going to find sleep anytime soon. And no, he's not Irish.
I stirred out of bed not too loudly, but did happen to knock all of the metal objects that were precariously placed on the top of my wall locker onto the floor. I hoped the clutter didn't wake anyone up, but I couldn't sleep so I didn't really care. I left the room, and headed down the jungle sweat making hall to the computer room and phones. Where I sit now. I called a familiar number, and name, and did something I haven't been able to have the luxury of doing in a long time. Talk with one person for hours, on a variety of different topics which were all close to the heart or very far from it. I really, really enjoyed doing it. I felt a connection with home, with humanity, that I thought I had lost.
After the phone conversation ended, though I really didn't want it to, I reminded myself all good things come to an end and do, and walked back to my room. Something old and somewhat forgotten and yet still unexplainable was in my step. I got back into the cold dark room, a stunning contrast from the exhaust-hot-bright hallway. I laid down, and still felt sleep not dragging it's slow hand of death to my eyes. I tried to get comfortable in every position, but no matter my effort, could not seem to find one. I laid there, uncomfortable for an inordinate amount of time and finally pulled my ipod out, plugged it in, and tried to relax. Soft piano and violin batted at the ear drums. I looked at my watch, 5:45, two hours of sleep. I pray. The music kept it's tempo soft and sweet. The Nocturne coerced me nicely to sleep. A Nocturne, you know, Frederick Fucking Chopin.
It appears hypocrisy knows no bounds
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