Parking

The worsening of my condition was a curse and a blessing. A curse, because I would be unable to sleep, yet also feel too tired to write. Though the time it took to have a simple breakfast was enough for the daily headaches to disappear on their own, only after a few cigarettes could I muster the concentration to write for as long as I would like. Most time where I did not write was spent lying on my bed in a daze, not doing much of anything. I was not in the mood to read, even though I had made a point of bringing my favorite books with me to Montreal. My tired brain could not appreciate the richness of Tennyson nor the surrealism of Kafka, and forcing the issue usually led to a sort of castrated frustration that produced nothing but bad writing to be deleted at a later date. At the same time, quality rest also eluded me, especially during the daylight hours where sunrays and city sounds poured in through the window beside my bed. When I was sick of wasting away on my bed, I took a shower or prepared a light meal of scrambled eggs, or a frozen dinner, or half a box of Kraft macaroni. If the refrigerator and pantry were empty, I would restock the grocery store two blocks away from my apartment. Then, I would throw my laundry in the machine on the main floor, though I would run upstairs as soon as possible to continue typing out whatever idea I had in mind. Three months flew by just like that, with my hermetic lifestyle sustained by my few thousand dollars in savings and some extra money pilfered from my parents.

The blessing that came from this otherwise regrettable situation came in the form of dreams — ones that came during active periods of sleep. The weirdest thing was that the more severe my condition became, the more intensely detailed the dreams I would have. Unlike ever before, they were vivid as to bring shame to the waking world of day. When I look through the text file on my computer archiving those many dreams, I see an entire world conceived inside my head and surgically delivered through careful keystrokes. As that file grew larger and larger, I became more and more okay with my predicament. Time after time, I would wake up laughing from some absurd scenario, crying from a tragic story, or inspired by some revelation shown to me by my unconscious mind. That was what made my morning headaches that much more bearable; I was not suffering for nothing.