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Book, Rise, River

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Zingoleb:
Can we comment on other's stories here?

Each night always seems to end the same.

I'll lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, light blue, flecks of red paint here and there where a young painter made her mess. Rolling over, pulling the sheets with me, having laid there for hours yet without sleep, I'll look over my baby Gem, my guitar tuned to my exact specifications for whatever song had been my fancy that night - If, or Crickets, or maybe just something in open E. The guitar stand missing, she will instead rest in the crook made by the bookshelf and the wall, the bookshelf itself blocking off half of the window but not all of it. Without my glasses, everything will be out of focus enough to mask its true identity, but I would still see through my window to the sky outside, a river of clouds snaking from the horizon to change colours with the sunrise.

I'll sigh and roll over, half-closing my eyes, running scales through my head to try and distract myself into sleep. F#, G#, A, B, C#, D, E...I will hear the notes, branching off and breaking into songs of their own; I will hear lyrics overtop of them; I will hear melodies and countermelodies, works of genius in my mind moments before I slip away, losing such thoughts forever.

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