“Sometimes the only way to really forget everything is to go to sleep.”

My 'other half' has a knack for going incognito when the going gets tough.

"Go to sleep—lights out on the world, that’s not me."

I will tick-tick-tick and think myself from now to Kingdom Come, as long as it all makes sense.

Why forget, when we can move forward? Forgetting more often than not, leads to repeating. Do you truly believe we memorialise our traumas in defiance of Netflix subscriptions?

And why, oh why do we mark history, if not to learn from past mistakes?

Yes, of course I cherish happy places too. Like back in 'way-back-when', when the love of my life opened their heart. And explained in great detail, a burden-less mortgage plan. But in all those halcyon days, I failed to foresee these hellish nights.

Now my eyes are open and time is different. It lengthens and intensifies and moves and stretches. Andshrinks.

To the modern minor, a mortgage is a quadranscentennial. In grandma's world, it's a Jubilee.

Solutions wrapped in jubilance trickle into my realm of satisfaction. Sleep is my enemy. I want to remember the backbone that built space, my world, my little two-up two-down.

When I sleep, the Earth does not. Time, meaning, perspective all dance into the night. And fool away my history, in hope that I remain without insight. Sightless? I sleep not!

My memories run the gauntlet of dreams and will one day fail to come back to me. Slowly and surely.

Perhaps the only way to forget…

is…

to go to sleep.

Better still…

still…

stay asleep.

My other-half makes sense sometimes. But pain management isn't their forte. I would say more of a fauté. They'd rather pop a pill and slip away into the night.

"Go to sleep—Oh I see! Hibernation! Now I'm talking!"

Bears don't forget their summer pastures or rushing rivers of seasons past—no, I’m not a bear. A sore head maybe, but not a bear. Any pain, trauma? Traumatised? No. Take me off of your suicide watch. I'm rarely shocked by trauma.

But I do feel.

Motionless, the dark nights light my thoughts and deep-diving are my feelings. Logic runs marathons, all to tell me to forget.

"Go to sleep—it’s okay to go to sleep, in certain situations."

I sleep—I sleep on lots of things. Not in a ‘sleeping-on-a-rising-athlete’ way, more in a ‘will-it-benefit-me?’ way.

I’m an advocate for Sleepers. People should sleep on beds. Case in point: When was the last time a mattress sucked the fluid from your spine? Beds are fine. Hospital beds are exempt.

'Go to sleep. What should I sleep on?!..."

I am soOoo rolling! I totally make sense and I'm pretty sure I have an impeccable memory. Especially two minutes to shut-eye.

There are a million end-of-aisle promotions and buy-one-get-one-frees. We should all sleep on those. Scams.

INFLUENCERS. Those 'click-click-clickers' with so much vitality, I'm de-energised just thinking about them. I EL-O-EL at their 'Stepford lives'.

And MisUndERstanDINGS.

"Go to sleep—turn down the volume, and while your at it, TURN OFF THE LIGHT!

And then I dream….

The buy-one-get-one-frees chase the golden influencer hard. Backed into an 'U18s only, season 9' stunt, down the aisles of Walmart they crash. Smashing into under-stocked shelves and over-priced panties. They slow to a crawl on hairy hands and ten inch heels.

Pant-pant, pant-pant, pant-pant.

Amidst the confusion, a well-dressed cashier in a canary yellow bikini grunts.

"Rise, oh Influencer. Receive your Blighthood."

With resentment, they extend a paw. Helped to their feet by a staff nurse, Influencer winces with sting. The carer, who had been giving first aid to a North American Grizzly in aisle 3, looks all of 25. Not at all experienced enough to give an epidural. And yet, she does.

Driving her needle deep into fat and sinew, she pierces Influencer's spinal canal.

"I'll give you backbone yet!" she said.

'Ah, so this is the woman that Jack built?' springs to mind.

Crouched and alone, I shift my weight from one foot to the next, trying to ease my cramp. I maintain my ringside position. Shielded by a 6 feet cardboard cutout of a Netflix subscription ticket, I notice my nakedness.

The influencer stretches their spine to the sky in valedictorian fashion, and releases their inner ideator. Many of their childhood dreams grace us. Their underdeveloped regal ramblings wage war with the peaceful stars. Dousing the dreams of followers and personal shoppers.

Only Influencer matters.

Their knowledge rockets, out of reach. A warning to those who sleep to forget, or pop a pill, and slip away into the fright.

But still the world watch on remotely, with remote in hand. Fast-forwarding and rewinding, days and years and histories. As habit quenches their slumber, they dream on, that sleep will aid forgetfulness. It does not.