Please forgive my sunless disposition, while you meander through the Insomniac's Exposition.
Sleep eludes me with mulish tenacity. Prances around in taunting circles, like a bonfire, surrounded by dancing witches and werewolves. I can hear the bell on its collar ring out to me, but it never comes within the light of the flame. I imagine it giggling, while it passes just close enough to let it's fur touch the tips of my fingers. It mock, and further exhausts me.
On display, at this flea market of torture, each of my rogue waves sarcastically splayed in front of my assigned seat. Rhythemed breathing is near impossible when anxiety grabs the helm, and the only direction I can bare to look is down, at my feet.
Night after night, I reemerge to find reprieve but my mind ceases to jog memories of merriment; instead, runs reels of the regurgitating tricks I play on my own head. Habitually arriving to my own sacrificial rehearsal, who's departure time is indefinitely delayed, I am cursed by chronic survival.
If I could throw my time in reverse, to figure out when the switch was stitched to the on position, I could expedite this revolving mission, and stop living in trauma's domineering submission. The audience heckles, and I finish another late night show, with no standing ovation.
A neon sign above the wavering chalice of yellow and orange, hanging in some kind of stagnant animation, flashes and flickers through the uprising waves of heat...
Indeed, we are all mad here but there is no escape upon defeat.
The crackles and snaps don't break it's glass, yet manage to leave third degree burns on my sanity. The sound of it begins to morph into heavy boots, steadily increasing speed, on an echoey cobblestone street.
This sleep paralysis haunts my dreams of dreaming...
One day, the hunt for rest will stop testing me, and I'll sleep forever in my coffin, peaceful.