Fairy Land

I’ve never outgrown the stigma of being the child that loved staying home sick from school so I could stay in bed festooned with my books and clipboard of drawing paper and my mother and father’s purloined pens from their offices.

Even with my 36th birthday right around the corner, nothing delights me more than a lazy morning with my book and a pot of black coffee, time of no importance.

I like getting lost in the worlds the authors I’m reading have created. I had a dream once I was in a submarine built for one, the little porthole looking up into the vast indigo expanse of the ocean. It was somewhat claustrophobic and I suppose a subconscious reaction to a sleep hypnosis tape I’d fallen asleep to, but it did feel cozy for a little bit. I remember, as such is the case with many dreams, I was both the omniscient presence looking from the outside in and myself, looking from the interior of the submarine out to the ocean I was floating in.

It doesn’t feel like October. A gentleman here once mentioned how Florida doesn’t have any real sense of time, how things move in a tropical, sluggish vacuum. How the palm fronds and the perpetual rain make it seem like spring all year round. It’s strange and miraculous how the hibiscus flowers never seem to stop blossoming.

A lethargy has visited upon me. It’s almost as if all the sleep I lost last spring has descended upon me in waves. My roommate has to coax me awake. By the time I do wake up in earnest, the day is halfway through and then sleep visits upon me again.