Jan 20, 2014, 2:14:31 PM – Original Posting @ Unravelled
Literature / Prose / Non-Fiction / Emotional

Classic rock played softly in the background as my tired mind twisted and turned around the notion of sleep. I longed for it. I knew I had too little time for it. It was taunting, cruel; only coming when so many other things needed doing. Sleep danced beyond my grasp. In its wake shifted the ashes of so many thoughts, dreams, hopes and frustrations. I wondered how I came to this. I tried to wrap my mind around something worthy of the space my words were channeled toward. A class. An obligation, slipping, drifting through my hands like fine, dry sand.

My eyes burned, dry tears cracking as I blinked and tried to focus. When was it simple? When was it easy to break things down into entities and attributes? It was back when those words had different meanings for me and spoke of living things, not atoms of fact. Fact. Facts. The cold dry ache of inches upon inches of snow that drank every drop of moisture from the air, left my lips and throat parched. I lay atop my blanket, too tired to chase down inspiration, rising again and again to chase away my thirst. Useless. In between sips, the dry, bitter taste of smoke curled upon my tongue.

With nothing else to write, I wrote down my insomniac musings. I imagined someone reading it and finding it depressing, but I was indifferent. The wasteland my mind wandered in was so far beyond depression. I was tempted to sigh, but I stopped at a deep breath and closed my eyes. There was patience deeper than my frustration. There was dedication in spite of this loss of coherent thought and purpose. Not this night. This night was not a good night. I was too drunk on confusion. I’d had a thought, an urge to participate, but thinking was more like dreaming at the moment.

So I told myself, “I should sleep.” A moment stretched on while that thought sank in, then I groaned, “I really need to sleep.”