Jigsaw

My dreams are potent at the moment. I suppose that's what I get for not sleeping until 3.30 and then waking up at 6 every day: constantly opening my eyelids mid-dream so that for the rest of the day, my life is stained by a jigsaw of abstract images.

I like the days where my dreams are beautiful, but they are getting rarer and rarer. More often than not I awake in a plague of misunderstood loneliness and have to hold on to myself for an unprecedented period of time before I can shake the feeling from my bones (or at least loosen the grasp of it).

I wouldn't mind so much if I could actually remember the dreams conclusively, but instead, they are fragmented images, colours, smells. Fragmented feelings.

So when I look at myself in the mirror, I am a fragmented body, unrecognizable other than the trademark dark circles. It's weird to look at your body and not recognize the person who looks back at you. I trace my fingers over my cheeks: deform them, press my face right up close to the mirror so I can barely see my reflection through the steam my nose exhales onto the surface. I don't recognise these imperfections- the red marks, the tired eyes. I thought I was someone else.

I'll try to go to bed earlier tonight.