Martijn Winkel

My boyfriend brings me sleeping pills. He has a sleep disorder. And I just sleep very badly. He stays awake, and I worry, and then I worry again because he stays awake. I worry about life and where I am going. And then I start grinding like a coffee grinder.

While the bedroom fills with the aroma of coffee, my brain grinds away, working overtime. A strange form of ecstasy. Not a waste of time, but a waste of rest. I grind and ponder. I unfold, unravel, and dissect. About the things I can’t control and the things that I would like to have more control over. Strange fears that tend to torment me. A desperate need to take back control, because control gives me peace and serenity. All the solutions to my problems will be neatly sorted in boxes with labels. Archived in that huge brain library of mine. That haunted museum never opens for visitors.

But lately, there are no solutions to my problems. And there is no control to be found or grasped. Situations present themselves like nasty jokes that I can’t laugh at. Life laughs at me and mocks me. You don’t need to have control over everything. Let the carrier pigeon go and trust that it will come back. It loves you, after all. And even more if you don’t let it die in a cage. Its wings are more beautifully spread, its arms more open to offer you safety. Trust that it will always return with a heart full of love, just for you.

A box for love and a box for lust. I don’t numb myself, so I feel everything. Everything and so much more than that. I am a Christmas tree full of labels. Slowly, you take them off one by one and read them. A label for my insecurities, a label for the noises I unconsciously make when I’m with you. A label for everyone who came before you and the wounds you are now trying to heal. A label for the endless patience I have for you. A label with love to heal you, because people have never truly valued you. A label for my sharp directness when you hurt me. And when I hurt myself, because nothing pleases me more than hurting myself the most.

In the end, only one label remains. A label for the coffee, coarsely ground. Would you like a cup? If we’re staying awake, anyway. Meanwhile, you open a can of energy drink. The intense scent burns the hairs in my nose. You grin and sip from the edge of the can, then make a slurping sound. You’re satisfied. I sigh because I should be sleeping, but I’ll catch up later. With your wings around me in our warm little nest.