I have no plans tomorrow.
Right now it’s Wednesday July 14th, 12:43 AM. Tomorrow is here. When I got into bed not long ago, it was yesterday, but after lying sleeplessly — my mind flipping as though controlled by a light switch, between the two extremes of motivated and despondent; with open eyes, seeking something, something — tomorrow has come.
I listen to songs on repeat. For hours. Right now, As the World Caves In by Sarah Cothran loops on my iPhone, it’s chorus swells in my ears over and over; I hear Sarah’s voice reach bellowing highs as she says: “It’s youuuuuu that I lie with … as the world caves in.” The end of the song matches seamlessly with the beginning to the point where it has become white noise. This one particularly is the most recent add to my playlist titled: Yell At Me. I’ve found that in some moods I crave songs where the singer’s voice strains, where the song has a certain intensity and I can project that intensity upon myself. The photo I’ve chosen to cover the collection is one of myself from 2014: drunk, tired, with flushed cheeks and bulging eyes looking into the camera, a manic grin on my face — from a night in Cuba on an all-inclusive March Break vacation which served as my introduction to over-drinking.
In all likelihood, I’ll sleep in. That much is assured at this point. I will wake around nine to an empty apartment, my roommate having already gone to work. I’ll perform my routine walkthrough of the house — checking to see what state the place is in. For the following eight hours, it is my domain — though I’ll spend all of that time, save for bathroom visits, in my room. I’ll see dishes in the sink, I’ll see a locked door and windows in various states of openness. I’ll adjust everything to my liking. Then I’ll return to my bedroom and close the door. I don’t drink much water, so I’ll not have the urge to pee for some hours. Then I’ll sit at my desk and open the laptop that I type on now, and I’ll check four of my eight email accounts: there will be no new deliveries in the inboxes, the count of unread messages will have remained at zero, and all junk folders will be empty — this is how I keep things. I’ll flicker through social media, and check my group chats, effectively eating up another six seconds of the day in my ostracine world. Because I don’t eat until 12:30, I will wait out the remaining morning period by… writing? Will I write? Probably not.
To break my fast, I will have toast followed something else to supplement calories. While I’m eating, I’ll want to watch something. I’ll start a video-podcast or TV show that is too long for the paired task; usually by the time I’ve decided on one, I’ll only have a couple bites left in my meal. I’ll finish the content, however long, and I’ll wash my one plate and knife around the existing dishes in the sink. I can’t say what will happen between 1:00 and 5:00. If it’s anything like today, I’ll nap from 3:00 – 4:30. Otherwise, maybe there will be a call with a friend back in Ontario, maybe some job applications, or writing — for sure this time — or maybe I’ll begin some new task or go back and work on an old one. All the while, periodically, I’ll be picking up my pen and filling in the date’s square on my desk calendar with the great happenings of my life: “Sleep in. Read. Write. Eat. Chill. Call w/ —. Read. Pack. Leave for —.”
I’ll have something planned for the evening. Right now I don’t know what it is, but it’ll likely be to meet with my aunt, cousin, or friends. I’ll make sure to leave before 5:00 so as to avoid the all-to-certain exchange with my returning roommate wherein I must attempt to report some semblance of productivity in my day, always with fewer words and less candidness than this post. I’ll commute to my destination by bike. This will raise — in step with my heart rate — my spirits. With whoever I meet, I’ll play volleyball, or play a game, or go for ride or engage in enthralling conversation. I’ll scheme new creative projects and discuss current ones; I’ll lock in plans for the weekend and make grander ones for the future; I’ll draw out advice from anyone seeming to have it and I’ll make sure to ask what I should do tomorrow.
I’ll go home, late. I’ll stay up later, maybe writing a sleepless piece. Then I’ll get a restful sleep — a “Good Sleep,” as it’ll be recorded on my calendar — so that I’m ready to do it all again.
A close friend of mine has asked for more optimistic theses in my blog posts. And I want to provide them, badly I do. But honest writing continues to bleed through. For now, when stepping away from my bed on pensive nights, when motivation has won out over despondence, I’ll only be able to write a piece indicative of my seeking — seeking something, something.
Go to bed,
B.F. Greeno, aka
now 2:11 AM
