“I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I’m awake, you know?” ― Ernest Hemingway
I fell asleep in class today. They turned down the lights and stuck on a bright projector, which I had no chance of escape from. Gone were the days when you had to cart out a great whale of a TV on wheels and spend half an hour setting it up. The film was playing without fuss or issue. Everyone else seemed to be keen. It was to late for a class, normally the time I would be having a nap. It didn’t help that I had earlier lost my daily battle to alcoholism, drinking three pints and a desperado. The documentary droned on, periodically disturbing me with images of dead children or groups of men with machine guns.
It reminded me of the time I watched Trainspotting pissed and how the quick flashes of brain-fucking imagery left me feeling like I had been on a drug trip. This was like that, only all the stuff I was seeing through my flickering eyelids was real. Slowly I was drifting, I could feel myself rocking forward and my head drooping to my chest like my father’s does after half a bottle of red. I propped myself up on a nearby piano, in retrospect it was odd that the film was being shown in a music practice room. Sleep took over though, and the next thing I knew I was being woken up. I didn’t fall asleep out of boredom (although I was pretty bored). I had fallen asleep in a film I paid to see the week before.
Everyone else in the class was appropriately alert. The self righteous, pretentious, festival wristband wearing, sudo-boheimian, arseholes. I hated them at that moment. I hated everyone who could be fully awake.