It’s 6:00 am

(Hear me while you read this)

It’s 6 am
the world is fighting dawn
wanting more sleep

I was in bed having my own battle
with the sun
I asked her to stay with her lover
for a while, I know the moon misses her
while she lights up the day

I was in bed having my own battle
with a weak body, numb limbs
unable to move, I succumb to the ghosts
of my conscience
they tend to sway at times
in the dark corners of the mind
they want to exercise their eerie matter
they want to feel alive and enjoy the tastes
of “what could have been”

it’s 6:10 am
time has lagged, defeating any purpose
of adding any motion to this lack of sleep
I turn to my side, hoping the change of body structure
can instill some slumber

I am still in bed, having my own battle
I decided to ignore the heart,
everyone listens to the heart in times of confusion
in times of no time, in times where the mind
wants off

The heart started poking my rib cage
acknowledging me of its existence
“but that wasn’t part of the plan”
It does not want to be fossilized
in the museum amongst other feelings
it fears the stone static presence
of relics, behind glass walls
the mere terror of being a thing of the past
makes it beat more

Enough about the heart
every poet, writer, artist
grabs it and places it next to the muses
that dance in their minds
enough about that

I have a full body
that feels, or at least I think it does
I have a fully functional mind
I have a skeleton that was once
the epitome of my concentration
and you have one too, similar to mine

I have bones that shake
with the adrenaline of a rush
I have nerves that spark up
when I am in a situation of unease
or great pleasure

It’s 6:20 am
why is time so slow,
I am on my side, I see my dreamcatcher
hanging there, light and empty
aching for an adventure
that only sleep brings
aching to capture the instabilities
the unattainable stories
the unreal

I extend my arms to my side
I never noticed I have so much space
I felt the cold sheets,
“were they always this cold?” I wondered
“were they always perfectly flat
“uncreased, unshadowed by another?”

I turn to the other side
I curl my body
hoping this fetal position
will instill some security and carry me into slumberland

Can this foreign feeling
be a taste of nostalgia
of what things used to be
before I shelved my heart
next to the pickle jar
that my sister loves too much?

I am at a loss,
fighting the pins and needles in my legs
I stood up
and lingered at the window outside
the world is still asleep
there is a yellow hue
slowly covering the streets
with a blanket of dust
it feels like it’s giving the confilicting
inner circles of the world a uniform color

Which reminded me of a story
I read once, about a woman with a mental illness
in a house, with yellow wallpaper

I stood there, wide eyed
far away from dormancy
cold limbs, numb, with an empty dream catcher
with cold sheets
looking at the yellow-ish sepia effect
the world has took
also brought a memory into perspective
from a friend
“in Russia an insane asylum used to be called a “yellow house.”

It’s 6:45 am
The world is slowly waking up
the asylum of maniacs
senses some movement
the “yellow” is overcoming the walls
of this nutcase country

and I seem
to be part of
it all
unable to sleep
and fighting


Oriol Angrill Jordà; Colored Pencils, Drawing

Oriol Angrill Jordà; Colored Pencils, Drawing “Blended Dreamers”


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