It is a pleasant sort of insomnia I proceed through, lying in my marriage bed, thoughts and ideas, like the hurricane rains of el nino crashing against my window, pleasant for the fact that I am indoors and safe from it in the same way that I am away from keyboard, giving my mind a rare opportunity to run free without the weight of ink encumbering it within my words per minute rate, releasing my engines from the aching restraints of my back, which leans forward when I write, like a lightning rod catching the current and coursing it through me. In my bed I am immersed within the watery substance of my thoughts, incapable of sleeping, this unleashed essence requiring my conscious observation of its heyday in the same way that I require an active audience to continue writing.
I don’t get to sleep until six in the morning, and am awoken around nine by Musette telling me that she wants to purchase PowerBall tickets.
The jackpot is over a billion dollars, she says. It’s the largest it’s ever been.
This is her golden ticket, her way out of work. I’m not going fast enough with my writerly ways. I haven’t inspired her. Her faith is faltering. She wants to put down twenty dollars. It’s two dollars a game.
Even if you don’t win the jackpot, she says, there are other smaller prizes you can win.
I am resistant, as I am towards almost all things other than lying in bed and rolling through our streaming series. Inertia has become a serious concern of mine. I am not proud of the static state of my body. I have become what I detested. God’s favor is falling elsewhere. But here it is, another path. They just keep coming. It does not give up on its children. It has infinite patience.
Musette is an angel. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again.
Alright, we can get the tickets, I tell her.
It will be fun, she says.
She likes gambling. This is a minor concern, but I can see it becoming a big problem. The way she cries at night, telling me she doesn’t want to go to work. These tears are fuel for the addiction.