At a certain point, sleeping is pointless. In a little over three hours, I will wake up and start my day. Oh, Monday. Oh, work. I regret accepting an early day versus my usual shift, but the idea of leaving work at 17:30 was tantalizing. It was an offer I would have been stupid to refuse. Alas, I won’t be waking up in three hours; I’ll be watching time crawl into morning.
The more I complain about my insomnia, the less I experience sympathy. Instead, many people offer advice and common remedies for my sleepless nights. But I generally roll my eyes; if it didn’t work all of these years, it probably won’t work now. I’m a pessimist disguised as a realist. (People take me seriously more often and it offers the undeserved position of someone’s life mediator.)
Even now I can feel myself slipping away into dreams, but my legs continue bothering me. I’m exhausted, but I keep myself up until my body has nothing else to offer for energy. Slumber’s Russian roulette offers no comfort in the dark; what will I dream of tonight?
Each pause lengthens in time. I can feel my phone slipping from my hands as I dream for a handful of seconds. I’m flying. I’m running. I’m laughing. Wait, what is that? I’m awake again.
Perhaps I should sleep before my writing resembles Saturday night after a couple of drinks. A jumble of nonsense and misspelled words are a weekends tribute to insanity. I have forgotten how that feels like.