Hallelujah (or what She does when She doesn't write)

Sleep-writing

This is an exercise in...what, Harmony? Well, something. I'll see if I can conjure up a suitable answer ere this post ends. I've spent this day - all of it - in the Dreaming. Yes. THE Dreaming. Land of Morpheus, Oneiros, he whom I love madly. I've been awake - or so I think/believe/am given to understand - the whole time, but it certainly hasn't felt like anything I've known before.

Today, I have sleep-driven, sleep-walked, sleep-talked, sleep-eaten, sleep-dra/u/nk, sleep-messaged, sleep-chatted, and am now in the process of sleep-writing/typing (this last to satisfy the purist in me who likens writing only to pen {ink [black] of course} and paper).

Aside: on why it must be ink. Ink on my fingers reminds me of the physicality of the act of writing. It plays with me, and I with it. It is the war wound I wear - proudly - after having toiled to create. It reminds me also that I have a hand. And fingers that extend from it. It forces me to reckon with my own corporeality, and in so doing, reminds me that this hand can touch. Or feel, even. There is a sensuousness inherent to the materiality of pen and paper. A sensuousness that cannot be conjured; that I cannot muster, whilst tapping on this 'ere keyboard, and seeing letter follow letter as this sentence slowly, achingly, flashes into being on my monitor. There. See? It was almost poetry. Till I got to the word monitor. It hasn't the magic of paper. Of pen. Of ink. Of ink on my fingers.

As ever, with me, the entree turns into the main. Dommage? I think not. Ca coule, non?

And now I must leave you, cher lecteur, to see if I can sleep-sleep; the only thing I haven't tried yet.