Personal micro-stories

I’ve noticed I have been spending way too many hours in bed

for a person who doesn’t sleep much

I’ve come across stories of people with mental illness triggered by it

sleeplessness

I tell myself it will all be back to normal

once I remember how it felt to sleep for seven hours straight

but truth is

I think

sleep is one of those things that once it leaves you,

it never truly comes back

just like some people

or your love for them

It’s funny how people tell you what to do

when you can’t sleep

as if you haven’t tried it all already

it feels like a book of self help

in repeat

trying to tell you how to overcome the loss of a loved one

when they haven’t been through that

when they have not experienced the torture of the hours

oh, the hours

and how time is no longer lineal

and how your limbs start to weigh on you

so much that you don’t want to get up

and how speech is a task that seems pointless

and impossible

and how light hurts your existence

even when you loved it once, until it made you cry

Every time I have tried to voice this

you look puzzled and empty

I wonder how empty you really are

and if you ever think about existence

and the inevitability of quantum entanglement

and the unbearably beautiful process of evolution

to have come into fruition

here,

in a time where minds have developed language and art

and bipolar disorder

I think about these things every day

and how somewhere in the universe someone is colliding particles

and it makes me happy

or at least it gives me a slight illusion of happiness

that doesn’t last long when I start hearing things and wonder if they are real or not.

Simple everyday sounds.

Like sirens on the street or kids crying in overhead apartments

or conversations of people on the stairs

or a couple fucking somewhere near

I have now decided not to measure my dosis anymore

or to watch how many milligrams of anything I take

for my mind has started to go slowly

and I know it’s not gonna stop going

slipping slowly and quietly away

so I indulge in the candy I like

messing my neurons as an act of protest

I take myself down consciously

not like a victim of something I can’t control

I try to voice this over to you

to see what you think of this

because I’ve come to love your face of emptiness

when I speak of such matters

but when I turn around to look at you

you are already asleep

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.