Those sleepless nights. They trickle on by once in a while. Tonight is one of those nights when they come out of nowhere – an apparition from thin air.
Well I suppose that one sip of coke might still be running through my bloodstream. And I do swear to God it was only one sip.
It’s almost 3 am. I’m barely drowsy, but I know I need to get up in the morning, so I suppose I should shut my eyes and wander off into the dream world.
But since I’m here writing, I’ll take some things off my mind by writing whatever comes into my stream of thought. That’s usually how my poetry comes to me anyway. Stream of conscience.
There are a few things about me that have always, always bugged me. I’ve tried to change, but these things just stick to me like a permanent stain on my existence. I can’t clean it off. I can’t change these things about me and I’ve tried again and again. Different methods have shown no avail in defeating these traits in me. And so I’ve just about given up.
The first thing is the way I’ve always craved attention and aimed at obtaining that attention by complaining to anyone who’d lend an ear. These complaints are stupid, worthless, and utterly annoying. But you know what? I can’t stop complaining. I mean, in a sense, I’m complaining now about the fact that I complain. What the hell. I can’t escape it.
The second thing is the way I’ve always lacked dedication to anything. I never finish what I start – unless I have to. All those puzzles that I gave up halfway. All those books. All those drawings still left half done. All those games I never got to the end to. All those stories that have no ending. My novel that is still left incomplete. My homework…though that will be finished in due time. My life is full of unfinished tasks – like a cracked jar with all those slits where things just slip on by. I’m broken.
The last thing that really irks me is the way I run away. Like the
fucking coward I am. I don’t like people getting too close. I don’t like judgement. I don’t want people to have a clear image of who I am. Because I can’t stand to be less than what’s expected of me. Expectations scare me. So I run. Cut ties off. And sulk alone like the pitiful fool I am. Except I don’t want pity.
In any case, writing makes everything feel better. I’ve always lived by that philosophy. I’ve always believed in the power of the written word.
When insomnia comes, words flee my mind like cockroaches scattering away from light.
When insomnia comes, tears pent-up behind my eyes, memories swell up in my conscience, and my entire body tightens up.
When insomnia comes, it comes to kill. Kill whatever calmness, contentment and prosperity it can find.
But it brings enlightenment. I realize a lot in these long, sleepless nights.
When insomnia comes, I bring back other dreams and re-dream them because sometimes, sometimes even my dreams are unfinished.
Sheep help too.