a squinky-eyed squatty sausage shark bullet!
^and then this guy.
...
ummmm,.right.
i don't see it, either.
he IS very handsome, so maybe that's where i'm losing the likeness.
i do see that this little nighttime terrier is similarly susceptible
to the moon's lunatic pull, through the blue-light-bathed snowfall reflections
and the crystalline ice refraction magnification of our true inner infinite nature.
do you get me?
no?
ok.
it's like this-
nature wins,
and even wen you spend your conscious timeline
refining a better and better version of yourself,
the real dirt-dirty and grit-grimy deepest darkest inner jauns
are gonna ooze out when your guard is compromised.
that's no joke,
and the werewolf moon is pulling and tugging and worrying
along the frayed edges of fretful sleeping,
and tearing at the tattered seams of our overstuffed ironclad pokerfaces.
there's pressure building up, and power pouring over the edges of our patience.
a good night's sacking out would be the cure,
but that's not in the cards,
apparently.
y'know, neighbors,
it's not so much the lack of sleep
as it is the consistently, alarmingly, repeatedly rudest of rude awakenings.
the way i rise and shine, every day,
from the antechambers of slumberland is with my hypothalamus
sending s.o.s telegrams to every extremity in preparation of mortal combat.
i mean it.
not sleeping at all is one thing.
...it's no fun, and you're always sort of hazy,
but,
it's not the same sort of suckiness as interrupted, rhythmless
faded in-and-outings into rest.
and if it's also punctuated by the fight-or-flight panic of perpetual peril?
that's pure bullsh!t.
as it so happens,
my semi-conscious mind can't tell the difference between
the pealing mewl of dog-whininess,
and alien invaders attempting to turn their tripod walkers towards my home.
nope.
i guess i'm a little tiny bit tightly-wound.
which means that getting my face stepped on by wintry dog paws,
while crabtree tries to readjust himself into a more comfortable place in the bed
gets the same instantaneous life-threatened adrenaline reaction
as assassins trying to garrote my throat and put me down forever.
yikes.
so,
here's the thing-
i respond like an absolutely frenzied feral battle-beast whenever i wake up to what my
tentative and tempermental automatic mind perceives as danger.
and it turns our anything that's even remotely interactive,
from the first second i start to drift off,
becomes a reason to start the blitzkrieg across enemy lines.
yikes.
i'll bet it's no fun being a sound sleeper over here.
y'feel me?
think about it;
the little nothings that bring me to an instant boil are by-and-largely unnoticed,
but the brutal freak out of cursing, biting, snarling animal anger,
mostly mine, and sometimes crabtree's, will awaken even the deepest of dreamers.
we take our hard styles and our long nights to eleven.
what else would we do?
every night is a struggle, every day is exhausting, until it's over,
and that's just it-
without the rest and respite of the evening, it's never really over.
one continuous moebius morass of metallic-tasting mettle-testing middleground mayhem.
it's all really happening.
the werwolfen tooth-and-claw caterwauling;
the bursting spurts of howling hit-and-run skirmishing;
the reset-resentment of every aftermidnight hot-fire-fight;
over and over, and then over again,
there's too many wild animals and not enough cage,
there's layers and layers of blood-feud fenrir fuego flooding our veins,
and not enough lairs to lay low until the waning ebbs the flow.
if you're looking for silver linings in this,
know that the lycanthropic leaning is susceptible,
but the lernean hydraulics of this bad bloodline
will generate two new problems for every one you solve-
(also, if you know anything about folklore and mythology,
and still don't think that last sentence was expert? ....F* you, forever)
so,
if you're asleep, you're the enemy,
and if you wake us up, you're the enemy.
there are no friends here after dark;
never quiet, never soft.....
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