Artist of Shadows, Or Sleep Apnea

Chuck Taylor

Artist in his room, the bed lamp lit, the fan running — white noise to block exterior sounds — the blinds tight shut; artist of the shadows of heart, the beating inside, the mind waking with thoughts, worries kept to oneself, the others in the house sleeping, they’ve heard it before, over and over, so let the artist suffer his insomnia rage alone; artist of the shadows, his books on the walls, his touchstones easily pulled from the shelf, a passage read, his laptop’s blue glow, tap, tap, words on the screen out into the night on the web for other artists of shadows who seek what they do not know, who dream a good night’s sleep, bright energy for a bright next day but have forgot that way of being, must love and move through the day in a molasses way, lost and not remembering, hoping clarity will come again while he wakes and sleeps, wakes and sleeps, for an hour or two receives buoyant energy, and then the mind turns to fog and anger and he will try to sleep. Strange life. Alone life. The artist whispers phrases, “I’m through with this,” “I can’t go on.” He takes the dog for a walk down the night-empty streets. The artist of the shadows returns and climbs in bed. It’s four a.m. He strokes his aching legs and swallows a pill to ease the pain…