For no good reason, I wake up around eleven or noon after perhaps five hours of sleep. At best. I was tired yesterday but couldn’t sleep. As I have for the past week, I meditated, focused on the breath for at least fifteen minutes, but my concentration was poor to say the least.
I took my Prozac last night, my Buspar, the vitamins. Weed for sleep. I should feel relaxed, even comfortably cloudy. Why am I tense and anxious? Some dream I cannot recall?
I meditate again, then watch the rest of a show. Then shower.
Arriving early for work, I stay in my car to hide from the Ohio chill and write a poem to try to get it all out of me. At work, I feel withdrawn. Tense and depressed. The anxiety climbs when I do trash, so I work fast so I can go in the stock room and cut box tops and be alone, be in silence.
As I’m in the stock room, I find myself getting frustrated that after all this time I still cannot say if the paranormal stuff really happens or if the aliens are real — or even what the fuck they are for sure.
When I get to the shelves right by the sink, there is stuff there that shouldn’t be there. One of them is a thick stack of clear plastic rectangles with black letters on them for the sign out front. I place them in the bun rack and continue with my work.
Even though the meditation didn’t go well last night and I’m anxious as fuck, I’m keeping this up. Fifteen minutes a night at the very least, I decide. I must keep trying to find clarity and calm. Energy and meaning.
When I’m about done, Gus comes back to the sink. As I’m walking away, he points to the bun rack. “Letters,” he says before walking away. I try to place them on the top shelf just to put them out if the way, but two fall on my head. It hurt a bit and I was pissed, so I walked away, cussing under my breath. A second passes and I chill out and pick them up.
The first I pick up is E. The next? T.