her elsewhere fill her with comfort here.
When she returns to the Prefrontal Chamber, she wonders how long she has been gone, then immediately counters this with nonchalance. All that matters is Rollo is not back yet. The tryst between Ingrid and the Frontal Chamber remains their secret. For all Ingrid knows, Rollo has a space just like it for himself. She hopes he does, but knows with a great deal of certainty he does not.
3.
A limbo exists between the waking and sleeping world. The waking world has no place in the silent darkness. We exchange the day for a transition into a facsimile of death that masks complex explosions of biological function unfolding within. These functions wait for the mind to disappear. The limbo between wake and sleep is a ceremony that mourns the loss of another day.
Rollo’s childhood suggested insomnolence, but his sleeplessness was a considerable act of will. In a time when Rollo still had the ability to remember, he remembered the wooden crib that housed him each night. Placed down so gently, as though he were in danger of breaking, onto soft bedding replete with infancy’s understanding. His arms reaching for the arms that had just released him. Wet lips pressed against his forehead, leaving a dampness that cooled before disappearing. The warm, orange hue of lamplight designed to grant him peace.
The lips.
The light.
Then loneliness.
In this crib, the room contorted beneath the lamplight’s gaze. The light removed familiarity and replaced it with danger. His body responded to confusing messages uttered by the contorted environment, telling him sleep must come. Sleep must take today’s life and leave you helpless. Rollo feared the room around him, but feared surrendering himself to the room much more.
His blankets were tucked so tightly only seizures of movement would convince them to yield. When Rollo managed this, he burrowed beneath the blankets, remaining awake and hidden from sight. The world was different beneath the blankets. In the presence of such danger, this small gesture calmed him. The space was intimate and unique. It was his and granted entry to no one else. When he was not there, the space stopped existing.
Consumed in this world of blankets, Rollo remained awake, assured in the knowledge when sleep finally stole him, it would not be by choice. Of course… sleep always stole him, sooner or later. He would wake each morning tucked tight by loving hands. Hands that assumed his position beneath the blankets a mistake that needed correcting.
Night’s inherent danger evolved to mean many things to Rollo as his age and awareness grew. No matter the evolution, the central concern remained devoted to extending the limbo. Sleep remained an enemy. Waking life was a composition of the self, performed with certainty. Sleep signaled a pause in the composition and became free improvisation performed by the subconscious. This was a performance refusing to pay attention to any malignance that wished Rollo harm.
Waking life, although preferable to sleep, became a source of fear all its own. As Rollo accumulated more worldly experience, he saw the pernicious hue of infancy’s lamplight gaze draped across every facet. Each day held within it, just below the stretched skin, threat and harm. It occurred to Rollo sleep did not introduce danger into the world. The danger was always there. The limbo between wake and sleep allowed Rollo to stay both alert and protected.
…
A child builds a fort for many reasons. Common to most children is a drive to understand a world dictated by them. Within the walls of these basic structures are eruptions of imagination. A blanket draped over two chairs transcends its constitution, becoming limitless. It is a structure that garners meaning via the hands that build it. The eyes that behold it.
Rollo’s nighttime reveries soon oriented themselves toward the simple notion of a pillow fort. He would gather and form what to him
Reshonda Tate Billingsley