Somnambulist

I feel like I’m asleep. Dreaming. I get up, work on art, take the bus to work, play office manager for eight hours, take the bus back home, work on art and go to sleep. There are variations. There’s eating and cooking and taking showers and talking with Nizzibet and occasionally watching a movie and a host of other little activities throughout the day. It’s not that I’m tired (although I often am) it’s that I don’t feel awake. I don’t know that I’ve felt awake for more that a few minutes at time in … Months? Years?

It’s easy to exaggerate. I love a good story. Most stories are, if not a little exaggerated, shorn of the dull minutiae that fills up most of our lives. When telling about my life I try not to exaggerate. That’s probably why I don’t talk about myself much in company. I tend to think I’m a bit dull. My life seems to be mainly the minutiae. And, in the middle of sleep, I seem to be doing some very good art work.

I wonder what it will look like when I wake up?

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