Pickup Sticks

I crashed into my hotel bed and prayed for sleep, but true sleep never came. Instead of rest, I dreamed, and in my dream, I stood on a beach.

Sand squished between my toes, and waves crashed in the background, but the sun hid behind clouds and bitter winds blew. Sand Island: I recognized this place.

I’d rode the mail-boat here during Dani’s and my first international trip five years ago. Instead of sand, though, sticks covered its shores.

I had no reason to do so, but I felt compelled to pick these sticks up one after the other and clear the beach. Thus, I began my monotonous task. When I picked up all the sticks in sight, I turned to see more, then walked down the sand to find more. With time, I realized this as one small island within Stockholm’s uncountable archipelago, and every stick here counted as a fraction of compared to those spread across all the islands of the Baltic. My task continued.

As my body worked, my mind floated free, like I was an observer to myself. I saw the irony in my turmoil, as “Stockholm” means “log island,” named for the place that a mythic log that once washed ashore at the city’s founding.

Somehow too, I formed an outside observer of myself, whereby my consciousness recognized that my physical body slept while my dream self engaged in this chore. Thus, the more sticks I picked up, my dream self’s labors translated to letting my physical body sleep longer. I hated my task, but I would wake if I stopped, and I would find my body tired and sick, and it would still be night. Morning would bring healing, but it would not come until after I picked up every stick on every island. I had to endure this purgatory.

I picked up sticks after sticks, cleaning beaches and islands for days and years as I prayed for the end and prayed for a morning that never came.

without warning, the beach of my dreams froze over.

I clung to Dani for warmth. Our hotel walls were thin, and Russians loved smoking. Every couple sticks I gathered, someone went outside for a cigarette, then returned, some sticks later, tying the pace of my dreams to reality. They talked with their friends as smoke wafted through our open window, and they stomped the snow off in the hallway upon their return. With each passage, the door slammed shut and shook our room, and the buzzer used as a “locking” sounded like an alarm clock. “Buzzing” and “Slamming” on constant repeat bound reality to my dreams and kept me on the cusp of consciousness and make believe.

When I could stand it no longer, I lurched awake.

~

I checked my phone: midnight.

Despite an incalculable time passing in my dreams, having cleared beaches, islands, and whole arpeggios, a mere two hours had passed in the real world.

Sweat soaked my clothes, sheets, and the mattress despite the frozen air. I cracked the window to let in fresh air, laid a towel over my sweat-soaked bed to make it more comfortable, closed my eyes, and slept.

~

I stood on an island beach covered in sticks. I had work to do; morning would not come until I finished my impossible task.