Peripatetic, Writer, Harbinger of Mirth
When I sleep poorly, I harm myself,
not with pills or knives
but doughy pizza and poker.
These might sound small—verily they are,
but I’ve avoided loving any people who die
and only been once dumped,
on my quest for #2.
Still a kid, a spoiled millennial,
these problems equate to self-inflicted boredom.
The world will crush me. It crushes us all.
Build your ark. Recession’s a-comin’.
I hate my sleep apnea.
Hate, hate, abhor.
I can’t breathe when I sleep so I awaken repeatedly,
Nap on the daily,
and feel beat.
A lived life must be more than annoyance and suffering.
Ten years a-questing
To fix breath, life force, qi.
The first doctor declares me a statistical anomaly,
Second finds nothing
In a test improperly run.
So I find the right team—
The world’s experts, wouldn’t you know?—
Who spot it immediately, can solve it in a day…
As soon as I can get on their booked-years-out schedule.
The process is the punishment,
The surgery the solution.
Julian Wise 