Insomniac
Zombified.
Blank bleary eyes blink away the burning, bloated blood vessels. Stinging, searing eyeballs that push against their sockets. Eyelids droop, threatening to close but never capable of rest. Head woozy, stuffed with cotton and covered in gravy. The world is watery, wobbling with every slight muscle twitch, every movement, every thought.
I see nothing. And everything. The universe, the stars, the wall, the emptiness. Beyond tired, beyond sleepy, beyond exhaustion.
What is existence in this state? What does it mean to be here, to be alive? Am I alive? Who am I? I am not here. Here and there. There and everywhere. Everywhere and nowhere.
Does this make sense?
Of course not. In this state, beyond the point of sleep, I can’t make sense of anything. It’s vague and specific. This is the land of contradictions, the land of questions.
What do you do when reality collapses? When gravity is so strong it caves in on itself and eats itself. How can I function when the empty wall wavers and colors spill down the cracked, bruised edges? The dresser rolls across the floor, back and forth, side to side. The closet door opens its mouth and sings to me in hideous melodies that rip my ears apart.
I blink. Everything is still.
The hallucinations hang heavy and hover over my head. Never letting go.
When can I sleep again?
Maybe, in death, sleep will come.
