The Head

It's four am again!

When only the bedside lamp lights the room the main lampshade casts an
ominous shadow onto the ceiling. It's the shape of a man's head. I
don't think he's a very nice man. He certainly didn't ask my permission
to project himself into my bedroom. He's still there when I turn the
light off. I feel him in the darkness. I once contemplated putting him
in a box and gassing him, but that would be unkind.

He's as bald as chemo, with a long forehead and sharp hooked nose. He
has a Forsythe chin, but more rakish, like a witch drawn on a child's
Halloween card. Perhaps I do him a dis-service. The profile has no eye,
so there's no impression of malice or for that matter kindliness. He's
just there on my Ceiling.

I pass mental banter with him. He's not much of a conversationalist,
but we make do. I call him Head. He doesn't seem to mind, I haven't
heard him object anyway. Sometimes I ignore him and try to read but the
book resents being opened when the world sleeps. I know this because it
makes itself as awkward as possible to hold. The skin between my
fingers and stiff neck know that the book objects to being read at that
time. I asked the head what his favourite books are, but he didn't want
to share. Sometimes I think he wants to be left alone to sleep
too.

On the other hand, maybe he's the reason I don't sleep. Perhaps he
needs my dreams to be. Is he treading my nightmares and making love on
my clifftop? If he falls off, does he reach the bottom, or wake with a
jolt when the sensation of falling becomes unpleasant? If he's stealing
my sleep, why can't I take his?

I might buy a new lampshade tomorrow?
? but then I'll have no one to think to.