Ohio. A warm and hazy November day, and my insomnia continues. Tonight I ran around a lake until I tired myself out. Why does the brain go to war with itself? My body is hungry for sleep, yet my soul races around like a crazed puppy, fetching unpleasant memories and scraps of regret for inspection. And my mind turns gullible in the small hours, ready to believe anything.
I believe you believe that. C. and I often discuss what would happen if one of us saw a ghost. It might be the most fundamental test of any relationship. One person sees a spectral figure at the foot of their bed, maybe a flying saucer over the highway or Jesus Christ floating in their soup. Now they stand before their lover, telling them magic is real and it’s all they can think about anymore. And the other person must decide whether to humor them or rearrange their own understanding of the world.
Last night I gave up the search for sleep and watched All the President’s Men at four o’clock in the morning. When played at low volume, it functions as a nostalgic fireplace: typewriters and shuffled paperwork, cigarette lighters and shoes clacking in hallways. The soft ding of an elevator is followed by a mumbled conspiracy that feels wholesome these days.
