Cataplexy

My eyes flutter, as the espresso stained books

stacked upon my shelves taunt me.

They reek of failed attempts at consciousness.

And coffee, of course.

But I don’t really like coffee.

It only keeps me awake long enough so that I can pretend

to read the books I’ve wanted to explore for years now.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep at night,

I get up and run my hands along

the spines of the books

that I know my brain won’t let me inside of.

The books my brain won’t let me breathe in.

The ideas and words of those before me that I can’t examine

without surrendering back to the world behind my eyelids.

This makes me cry,

which makes me feel weak,

which makes me fall,

which makes me sleep.

I fall into a deep sleep, where I’m running barefoot

away from the giants who throw sunrays at me,

as I escape into the sea.

I wake up, frozen,

still stuck within myself,

unable to leave.

But then, I slowly start to move.

I can feel myself come awake.

The gnawing feeling behind my eyes is gone,

and I’m given another chance.

Another chance to exist,

another chance to read,

another chance to use

this body that is me.

I’ll have an hour, or maybe a few,

to do the things

that you always get to do.