I’m watching these people fight in Afghanistan. These children.
It’s a documentary called Respeto on National Geographic. They’re only babies. Kids. So it’s not like in the movies. They sleep in their clothes, burn their shit in the morning, and spend months getting to know each other. They may as well be in love. Then they’re killed.
There’s this eighteen year old kid, bawling on my screen right now. His friend is dead beside him.
“It’s not supposed to be like this…”, I’m thinking, “..why is he crying?”
On the other side of the valley, the same thing is happening.
I feel slightly inadequate, vaguely useless. Maybe I should have joined the Army.
IF I HAD MY OWN REALITY TV SHOW…
I’d watch people sleep.
I’m fascinated by involuntary action. I’m a Sado-Masochist in imagination. It’s not the pain. It’s the removal of control. It’s your surrender or someone else’s.
It’s out of my hands.
What you do in your sleep is dictated by what you’ve been through, what you think you’ve hidden, what you really want. Do you fight with the covers? Lay comatose? On your side, on your front, or your back?
Do you talk in your sleep?
I raise my head and bumb it against my pillow, like a sea-lion making it up the beach.
Bump. Bump. Bump. Once every ten seconds for a couple of minutes every hour.
My twin uses her feet. The doctors say that’s the way we were inside my mum. Head to feet.
Ever looked at someone you love when they’re asleep?
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