by Abner Dormiendo

Tonight, I feel like writing — in fragments
because I cannot fully grasp the thought of sleep
right now. The fan is buzzing as it shakes its head
and I wanted to say I’m sorry for some reason
although I did nothing wrong to it. Penance
must have a metaphor: it is when you are the only one
who is still awake at an ungodly hour while the rest
of the city is under the blankets. Conversations
with an electrical appliance is futile but nevertheless
comforting. In a monotonous tone, the refrigerator says
that I still have to wake up early tomorrow so I beg
for a glass of cold water as if it would calm me down
but the tricycles outside are loud and I am growing
incoherent with every passing minute. I will now speak
with my blanket sprawled across my legs, my feet
indecisive of whether they would want to be outside
or under it. Every now and then something raps
on the roof and I scare myself. The deadlines are
hunting me down for the things I have yet to write
and this is some sort of an apology, a placeholder
for something I have yet to name. Notice how the poem
lies to itself: nothing here is fragmented. Everything
might correlate to something. I need the schematics
of my mind. Somewhere, random recessive memories
have maps. This leads to that. This leads to slumber.