I dream of sleeping like I did many years ago. Back then, I would come home from work tired and fall into a deep sleep at the same moment. With just my head touching the pillow, I would dissolve without effort. And it was right.
Now I am carrying a sack full of bones. A sack of secrets and untangled knots, trauma and pain, sadness and grayness. A sack of bones of people who died in the war. A bag of enemy missile fragments. A bag of night sirens. At sunset, the gray seeps through that sack and envelops me, and the threads tie to my fingers and drag me into the tunnels of my thoughts. And there is no sleep there. There is fear and self-loathing.
I dream of sleeping like I used to. Where my bed is a ship on which I am flying home. Through the labyrinth of my past, I am looking for the tunnel, the bridge that will lead me to the real me. I am looking for the river whose waters will wash away the grayness from me.
My body has forgotten how to fall asleep, and I collect artifacts that will help it remember. Along the way, I collect bird feathers, sprouted cones, pieces of fog, shiny fish scales, twigs to light a fire, old boats, small empty bottles and plates, and the cries of seagulls. I travel far from home to find my sleep and bring it to my bed.
I am searching. I walk and walk. My movement leads me to peace. Peace in me and peace at my home. And movement becomes more meaningful when you frame it with stillness.