I'm not sleepy, but I've always been a very good sleep. At night, I crawl into bed, put my head on the pillow and just spend 10 minutes (if they) before I sleep. It is usually what takes the arch of my back up to the ass to accommodate the mattress.
The truth is that it is fortunate not only because this break, but because it seems I'm one of those lucky at all, however serious (with some exceptions, I'm not stone), I lose sleep. Sometimes, to strut and downplay it, say it is because I have a clean conscience. Actually it's usually because I'm tired and also because I like to move around in bed.
bed ever given me great ideas, so I have paper and pen on the table, but usually the times I have caused sleepless fears, anxieties and pain. The oldest
remember them as real hell as terrible childhood earaches I awoke from my peaceful sleep. And then had the shame of telling things and would not bother, so when after several attempts to relax and go to sleep again saw the pain overcame me, I had no choice but to surrender to despair and throw me to mourn, but short. Two or three tears later, my mother would wake up and say: "Silvia, what's wrong?" At that point I knew that victory over those pesky punctures was mine, and that in a moment all would have happened. I answered, softly through her tears: "My ears hurt, and my mother got up, stretched a protective blanket on the table, and plugged the plate as he pulled two tiny towels. The doubling in the form of a pad, passing the hot iron and I ran one. "Here, put it between your ear and the pillow, but be careful not to burn." The lobe was burning, but the heat relaxing me, as my mother put another towel on the plate to relieve the previous one, which was cool. So he repeated the operation until I slept with one under the ear, the morning after was the only reminder of my agony girl with the ears.
But other nights there was no pain, only darkness and silence that the streets are finished in the pouch of my neighborhood, and it sounded like a constant buzz. Other times from the door I got a glimmer of light and sound (light) of the TV that my parents were still watching. Then began to fantasize, and he rolled me mind, a thought crossed with another. A few days thinking about the school, others in the things she heard at home, and sometimes, as all children do, in death. Those were the worst days. Not thinking about how they die, or pain or anything like that, only one kind of view from beyond the grave in which he saw that the world was without me. And I did a lot of anger, as if (as is actually) is not noticed my absence. Ever mentioned it to my mother, I guess because she has always been very keen to make clear that she does not mind leaving this world. Years have passed, and now live in another house, but remains on the same street, ending in cul de sac, with the same buzz. And those moments before sleep are still as disturbing. And years later, again leaving the subject, My mother tells me: "Child, is that from small're committed to that you want to die."
And yes, it's true. I do not want to die. Especially since now that I do not care that the world will continue without me, now I have fear of other details.
So today I uneasy all day. Because one thing is going to accept what is upon us, and another victim of a pandemic. One thing is that one be misled by the excitement of being part of history, and one who wants to appear on the books of the cone (the mixture of natural and social absurd called "middle knowledge") as part of a number, as in his day there in my history books hit the poor the plague.
The truth does not seem right at this time. What if I have to end up in a car (now would be in a truck, I guess) between loads of bodies to carry
burn me after they have painted the door of my house with a cross to warn my curse, damn it at least not be at this time of crisis, I'm unemployed and I have no desire to grant me one last trip as a farewell to New York, a feast with friends or to make a contract to someone for me to scratch the back throughout the day.
also is not the same die of an epidemic caused by rats, which is a thing as misery, that to do otherwise caused by the animal that gives the ham. Not just live in a time when you warm in cold weather and hot weather cooling off, in which you travel miles in minutes, in which a cavity can not kill you to end up like centuries ago.
No, I do not want to die of the flu, or avian or swine, or sleep with your ass in the air, so tomorrow I go to Lidl, and like my mother when war threatens, I collect and I stay here locked up with sauce, until the thing happens and the hogs do not pose more danger than a few extra kilos or a guy who tries to get you hand.
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