Tanner Jay Sleep Sleep. if I Wanted

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  • 8/14/2019 Tanner Jay Sleep Sleep. if I Wanted

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    Tanner JaySleep

    Sleep. If I wanted to sleep I would. This is however the only time to think on my ownwithout being under the jurisdiction of authority-no professors intent on lesson, no

    imposing of anothers will-No paternal no maternal no parental shadowing wing. Justme, just I nestled down in one spot, comfortable, with thought as my nightcap and clarity

    my moon. I lay on my back on these sleepless nights and think. This is the place ofnight where I and the moon become such great friends. Within its glow I can achievefar more then in the zombie march of daytime. Blood red thirsty eyes begging for rest isnot what I have come to appease. So I will not sleep, not now, yet I will live freely.I turn over and reflect on my morning. The early brisk stride through a parking lot to thecoffee shop, the parking lot full of identical cars all expensive and new, full of overseasingenuity, the return from a college degree. As I walk to the coffee shop a waxy and dullhumid air varnishes my skin, it makes one feel dirty, awake, alive, a pure dirty.On a day like this when there is no realwork to do, when relaxation fills the agenda and

    indulgence the mind there is nothing more fitting than a warm drink a cushioned chairand to sit and exist and forget amidst the sultry element. This local cafe becomes asanctuary amidst the weather, the umbrella security and blanket warmth to a ratherinconvenient suburban morning.The coffee shop is loud with bangs, clangs, and steam. Italian names for an Americanmarket line the order board. Just for me; because I am underwhelmed and young.Because today is Friday, today is payday and I crave the thing which I can afford not. Isit, complacent. Here. Insight on this morning is as strong as the coffee in the cup nextto me. The chatter of debate all around me, each voice different but trying so hard to bethe voice of reason. There are not individuals here but there are many characters, theneighborhood bard is in his corner with one hand propped to support his blank canvas

    head while the other so frustrated all it can do is tug at his hair, pulling up and lifting theroots as if to extract thought. I am here amongst these superficial shells and vivid flares,sitting by the cold window in the corner, I have my own table and use it like a watchtower examining everyone from afar. Business people, young people, people withchildren, regulars, first timers, old timers, quasi-intellectuals, fakes, phonies andtheology. There are those who ask not for a receipt and there is the few thinking aboutthe decision with flat pockets.