The Rhythm Of Data

Pitch perfect my constant electronic night companion reminds me to keep breathing. The gorgeous Irish nurse speaks of home and family afar, midst screeching gulls and salt spray.

We muse on loves lost and as she speaks a faery appears her wings like a huge butterfly, legs like stilts tall.

I was told I would be returning home today but it would appear life has another plan for me. The machine tells the doctor that despite my attestation of feeling fine I am not.

Hovering, like a cicada about to escape its shell my soul at night sits waiting for me to let this frail container go. Each breath in, on hold for no apparent reason kicks my digital dancer into irregular peaks and troughs.

The night staff sweep the floor of packets and picks. A clock on the wall silently winds its arms through seconds, minutes and hours.

Something in the poetics of prose tells my intuition that today I may not be heading home as early as I thought. My neighbour hard of hearing cranks the TV lapel speaker volume through to maximum.

My head sinks heavier into the headrest and my pillow flops to the floor, flaccid. I gaze at it intently, folds of satin like the smooth cheeks of my partners butt.

Ten past ten. Smiley hour.

Life has a way of giving answers that seem irreverent to our determined way of thinking. Our goals and aspirations mere conjectures at the mercy of a fate only known in hindsight.

A new day. More data and hopefully more stats revealing why my nights are filled with abject terror.