After three o’clock at night, Leo starts to wriggle;
he can’t seem to find a comfortable position or the right spot.
He wards off some invisible enemy with his arms,
weeps a little, grinds his teeth,
keeps sitting up and then lying down again…
And this is every night.
What’s going on in his little head?
What images disturb his sleep?
Maybe he’s dreaming that he can’t take the green ball from under the couch?
And maybe he’s trying in vain to fit the puzzles together?
Or that he’s sitting at the table and everybody is having cheese,
but he’s not getting any??
Maybe a hair trimmer is getting close to his head?
And maybe it’s not a trimmer but a nurse with a syringe in her hand?
Maybe he’s back at the ICU again?
All alone and without his parents. In a metal bed.
Maybe they are piercing him again, doing the tests,
putting a probe in his nose, taking smears, sticking a speculum in his throat…?
Or maybe the beautiful Ondine is looking at him from under the surface of a lake?
2013.01.12 Francisco Goya, The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters