I find the nights long, for I sleep but little, and think much. - Charles Dickens •°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•° A SLEEPLESS NIGHT (A Page Of My Post Mid-night Diary) •°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•° ~•~•~•~•~••~•~•~~•~•~•~•~•~•~~•~•~•~~•~•~•~• Legible Entry #27 16th July, 2020 Thursday (2:35 AM)
Hello Journal, Yeah!! Awake past midnight!! An insomaniac in the world of sleepers!! Normal sleepers!! Sometimes I wonder if you're my addiction. Do you call me because I, too, get to you my dear...!? Do you drag me to achieve your ultimate high...!? You're my past mid-night love. My "up all night". The reason I stay awake counting the stars and my heartbeats. You're the spot I see and shadow I cast. I love you and you love me. Okay Shut Up...!! Is it a time to write romanticism...!? I'm here only because my melatonin isn't working properly tonight.
//There are some nights when sleep plays coy, aloof and disdainful. And all the wiles that I employ to win it's service to my side are useless as wounded pride, and much more painful.//
That nefarious disorder that usurps my sleep every night holds the anchors above my head, and once the looming presence creates an unyeilding uncomfortable feeling within me - The anchors are dropped at once as I clutch my heart and watch my life flash by in intense but short clips reflecting off of my irises. Drowing in a waking nightmare consisting of life - altering decisions yet to be made and a ubiquitous, haunting past that never fails to ascertain me, despite the innumerable heat runs I've taken to escape it's chokehold.
Time check. 2:50 AM. The world sleeps, yet now I thrive. Sitting, thinking, always thinking.
Wistful versus Wishful thinking keeps an insomaniac busy at night - contemplating the universe's unhealthy obsession with showering sullen loads upon my already feeble stature and yearning for a change to form like how the leaves just fled the trees they were accustomed to for so long. Ruminative habits that not even the toughest of diamonds could scratch to erase them from my routine nightly thinking. But I'm constantly torn between resenting every constant and vowel meant for you and all of my feckless attempts at achieving perfection. And optimistically hoping for a banishment from all negative, and acceptance of the elation spreading faster through the airwaves of people open to recognition and reversal. But my anchors are breaking through the floor boards as my weary but restless eyes scan the page for errors and I'm cautious in giving them a tug out of fear of a perpetual fall that insists on torturing me through an insomania-flavoured-death-to-be.
Time check. Again. 3:25 AM. The world sleeps, yet now I thrive. Sitting, thinking, always thinking.
What is to ensure after countless hours of wistful and wishful thinking...!? Am I to write until the moisture leaves my fingertips and the blood rushes to my head because my amygdala is housing all of my aggressions and fears, close to explosions upon anything in my vicinity...!? Or am I to close my eyes and daydream of better, happier times to arrive my front doorstep sometime in the near future...!? But my overactive thoughts stimulate several situations that could play out, and the ones I decide on making permanent effects in the future are the ones that end with me crying and hopeless.
Maybe life of an insomaniac is even worse than people think - it is not the fact that we do not sleep that unnerves us. It is the fact that when we do not sleep, we overthink, and when we overthink, we depress ourselves with all of the outcomes and possibilities that can arise from the most trivial decisions to the most climatic ones.
Time check. Again. 3:43 AM. The world about to wake up, yet now I thrive. Sitting, thinking, always thinking.
My anchors act as my comforters and hold me tight during my REM (Rapid Eye Movement) sleep when the vivid and electrifying dreams and nightmares play simultaneously like a horror film I am entrapped in. I hone in on the conflict and I'm taken away in shackles into dreamland, a world worse than reality. And I cannot lucid dreams, so my control, my grip on the direction of the thoughts slips away and the fabrication of my unconscious takes over until I wake up every hour breathless and sweating.
Time check. Again. 3:55 AM. What does this mean...!? There are no dreams. All is a dream, and all is an attack. I am always awake, the curse of the insomaniac.
I'm awake to all the wrong times, on all wrong sides of the bed, and falling back asleep is a difficult task to carry out all the time because of the lack of melatonin that seemed to be crossed of the checklist of necessities of being born. And so the cycle ensures for the next 5 hours. And I continue this routine day in and day out. This is the life of an **Insomaniac.