Entry Fifty-one: Save Me, Black Jesus

[A story in many parts: Part Three of Thirteen]

What is she singing? I’ve heard it before but I can’t remember what it is. That’s so annoying. I hate when that happens. And it happens a lot, especially lately. So many things people say to me sound familiar but not familiar enough to register in my brain. I used to have a great memory, I think. Then again, maybe I never did and me thinking I did is part of the bad memory I’m dealing with. One thing I can remember, in fact I’ve memorized, is how many holes are in the ceiling tiles directly over my bed. 1,367. One freaking thousand, three hundred sixty seven. Since the first day I took the time to count them it’s always been 1,367. I used to count them every day, hoping I had counted wrong and had somehow added too many or too few. Anything to make it different, break things up a bit. I remember how nervous I’d be as I’d get closer to 1,300. It was pretty thrilling for the first few weeks but it wore off when it became obvious the final count wasn’t going to change. I haven’t counted them in a while. It’s nice to have something in my back pocket for another day.

I’m a little tired. I’m not sure why because I don’t do much to wear myself out but I find myself only able to stay awake for short periods of time. Being alert takes a lot of energy and before long I’ll start fading into sleep, or rest I should say, because I never really sleep, only to get jolted back awake by that beeping monitor. But it’s time now. I need to rest. Monitor be damned.

All words and images ©2005/J. Colle