Sleep, a Baby, and my Restlessness
I saw her sleeping today.
She's just a three year old baby.
She always snores, with her mouth wide open, her lower lip hanging like an autumn leaf about to fall. I don't know how she manages to sleep like that, with such a peace, such a forgetfulness of the world.
I don't remember sleeping like that since I started to grow into a big girl.
When I sleep, I'm always aware of everything, as if the world would demolish without my surveillance. I just can't sleep like that. I'm highly aware of what's happening around me, what someone is doing, whether my parents are having tea, or whether someone is arguing from their balconies.
The dogs on my street are howling. Nowadays, they howl even during the daytime.
Nevertheless, the baby sleeps with drool dripping from her open mouth.
I've been told snoring isn't a good thing, so I close her mouth.
It opens.
I close it again.
It opens as if it were an unrepaired automatic door at the supermarket.
I sigh.
I like watching her sleep. It feels like she's not inactive, or resting, but rather as if sleep itself is an activity for the sole purpose of the creation of drool pools.
I lie down beside her curled-up tiny body, hoping to catch her peaceful vibes, and 'drift off to sleep', instead of the usual 'getting to sleep'.
I love the way her hands just float on the bed, as if they are flying in nothingness, another dimension of Tranquility, where I'll never be lucky enough to go to.
I close my eyes.
They say, to get a good sleep, one must focus on one's breaths. But I get nervous just listening to my own breaths, so I listen to her breaths instead.
But she doesn't seem to breathe.
Panicking, I put my ear on her heart, relived to hear her heart thumping.
I wish someone would caress my head.
I'm sleepy all of the time, but I never really fall asleep, however much I want to. I desperately want to.
So I just pretend to be floating in the dimension of Tranquility, but as soon as I start to feel my body, when I loosen it up, I feel my aching legs, tensed up muscles in my calf, firm lips, tight eyes and numb hands.
I sigh again, and get up to find something I can do.
I can't sleep.
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Ramona Singh
She's just a three year old baby.
She always snores, with her mouth wide open, her lower lip hanging like an autumn leaf about to fall. I don't know how she manages to sleep like that, with such a peace, such a forgetfulness of the world.
I don't remember sleeping like that since I started to grow into a big girl.
When I sleep, I'm always aware of everything, as if the world would demolish without my surveillance. I just can't sleep like that. I'm highly aware of what's happening around me, what someone is doing, whether my parents are having tea, or whether someone is arguing from their balconies.
The dogs on my street are howling. Nowadays, they howl even during the daytime.
Nevertheless, the baby sleeps with drool dripping from her open mouth.
I've been told snoring isn't a good thing, so I close her mouth.
It opens.
I close it again.
It opens as if it were an unrepaired automatic door at the supermarket.
I sigh.
I like watching her sleep. It feels like she's not inactive, or resting, but rather as if sleep itself is an activity for the sole purpose of the creation of drool pools.
I lie down beside her curled-up tiny body, hoping to catch her peaceful vibes, and 'drift off to sleep', instead of the usual 'getting to sleep'.
I love the way her hands just float on the bed, as if they are flying in nothingness, another dimension of Tranquility, where I'll never be lucky enough to go to.
I close my eyes.
They say, to get a good sleep, one must focus on one's breaths. But I get nervous just listening to my own breaths, so I listen to her breaths instead.
But she doesn't seem to breathe.
Panicking, I put my ear on her heart, relived to hear her heart thumping.
I wish someone would caress my head.
I'm sleepy all of the time, but I never really fall asleep, however much I want to. I desperately want to.
So I just pretend to be floating in the dimension of Tranquility, but as soon as I start to feel my body, when I loosen it up, I feel my aching legs, tensed up muscles in my calf, firm lips, tight eyes and numb hands.
I sigh again, and get up to find something I can do.
I can't sleep.
◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆◆
Ramona Singh
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