It was such a bad night’s sleep that it was unrealistic, a cartoon version of a bad night’s sleep. There was heat, mosquitoes, and every kind of noise: traffic, laughter, techno music. I smothered myself with a pillow to muffle the sounds, mummified myself in the bedsheets to discourage the mozzies. I tossed and turned for hours, trying to assume a position in which sleep might grip me. But it didn’t come for many hours.
Often as I fall asleep I will enter into a narrative, one of several ready-made daydreams that usually succeed in drawing me into the depths of rest. The morning after this recent oppressive night, I explained this to a companion at an alfresco lunch table. As she asked for more information on these thought-narratives, I realised that they were each fairly childish, and I was far too embarrassed to describe them in any detail. All I would admit is that were well-worn, smoothed – that I had carried them with me for many years. They are journeys, adventures, and accomplishments that are borne from a younger self.
It is not only at night. They sometimes come upon when I’m hiking, particularly on long routes where even terrain allows for the body to move without too much attention to every footstep. Whilst walking, in fact, I further embellish the fictions, improvise on their outcomes. I have never thought this through either.
Of course, having revisited them so often, so unconsciously, over the years, they are now very deeply a part of myself. They tell much about me, and so I will not tell about them. But today I must accept that many of the disappointments I have relate to failing to meet the expectations set by these self-fictions that swirl about my brain at night.
My restless night was in a rented room in a country that is not my own. Another season of my life in Tasmania is concluded, and I have wandered off elsewhere, a pattern I have now followed for some years. I make the effort to mark the passage of time. It allows me to savour again any particularly sweet memories from the summer past, to let any dismay sink deeply into me, and to accept where luck and choice have taken me.
The first time I left Tasmania for so many months – some years ago now – I found myself shambling about wintry European streets, wind-bitten and lonely. There I made a new daydream, a daydream of home, and for the first time felt myself as a person made by my island. As each day drew me nearer to Tasmania, I knew I belonged to this scene: a black brook, fringed with ferns growing from dark earth, a spindly pepperberry clinging to its banks, its spicy leaves shining.
I have five nights in this rented room; this is the longest I have stayed in the same place for nearly a year. When I flew out of Launceston a week ago, I left it with some regret, discontent, and resentment. Here, the other night, I had a restless night’s sleep; for nine months I had a rather restless life. I chose that: although as the season passed, the choice seemed less my own, part of a collusion of forces, many of which I have succumbed to but some of which I resist.
I have tried very hard to learn to love in Tasmania. I don’t suppose it has amounted to much, at least when I contrast it with what seizes me in the moments before I sleep. When those night-thoughts fail me, new ideas appear, rattling on in errant trajectories – not soothing narratives, but splintered fragments of thought that I must learn to put together.
I suppose I leave home in order to revisit my daydreams, to return to the narratives I have let make me, to the dark thoughts put in my head by a lifetime on an island, half-wild, saddened, shadowed, and storied. Sleepless nights are little cost for this chance to imagine things anew.
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