Insomnia

What runs through a sleepless mind.

INSOMNIA

I've been staring at the ceiling, counting the tiles one by one. Waiting, just waiting, for hours to pass so I may be free of my lonely prison. Waiting for the sun to shine, with the bright, but just as equally dark, hope that the birds will sing and all will be right, even though it never happens. There's a catch, I am my own warden, because even when I’m free, I have to remain hidden. Hidden behind a mask of my own creation that says everything is okay, a mask where a smile is always present even when one isn't felt, a mask always followed by laughter except that of its wearer, a mask only worn to please an unforgiving society. It may bear a pleasant face, but it conceals something much darker: me.

I continue to stare, at nothing but the room around me. The tacky wallpaper, with the help of gravity, is slowly fighting its way down, peeling away. A soft white glow spreads itself across the room from an old light above my head. The room itself is small; a single bed in the corner, a dresser in another, and an ancient desk with wood close to rotting away. It’s quiet, the only noise is the sound of my own breathing and the faint zap of the light fixture, and all I can do is think. I think the nights away, never dozing for an instant, stuck in the chasm of my own mind. Only to be up again without a moment of physical or emotional rest, and face the world, but still, I remain hidden away.

As I stare, my mind wanders to my future: where will I be, who will I be, and what will I be? All of these questions race through my mind like wildfire; never slowing, never ceasing, and never dying. My own future leads me to dwell on the future of humanity itself, a future long after I’m gone. At that moment, a sneaky little thought popped into my skull, one word, “why.” Never has any one word rung so strongly, echoing throughout my head, a question that questions everything. If we are to spend our lives working and working, to only end up beneath a heap of dirt and decay. Why work at all, why try? All I could think of was the pointlessness of it all, the emptiness of life. I found myself questioning and criticizing every little social construct and tradition, only to realize how terribly alone I truly was. Then suddenly, I couldn't think at all. My brain ran dry, I racked my mind trying to think of a thought to think. Nothing came, so I sat and I stared forward, hoping that the night would consume me and sleep would come. Still, nothing came, was this my curse? To be forever caught in a cycle where; at night, I was drowning in solitude, and during the day, my real self was buried a mile under my skin trying desperately to cling to something, anything real.

Another thought, not a pretty one, but a thought nonetheless. “Why me?” Who decided that out of the seven billion people that infect our planet, who the hell decided that I was to be punished. People of faith and religion believe in a merciful god, a higher power that forgives. Well where is my forgiveness, what did I ever do that would ward off his mythical mercy. Now the depression kicks in, it isn't the first time; depression and loneliness go well together. Every time it happens, I always hope it will be the last, but hope is a lie. A pretty little lie that we all believe, just because it’s more convenient to do so. The reality of it all is just a painful truth, that no matter who we are or what we do in this life, it all ends in death. We all just rot away in a box, or become ash in the wind or in a jar on the mantle; years of effort and conviction destroyed in the flames, or buried with us.

I was tired, tired of thinking, tired of everything. Happiness was only a faint memory for me, I can remember days where I could be myself and nights where I could sleep without any distractions. I have no recollection as to what changed, no little clue to follow to try and cure myself of my own disease. Despair filled my mind once again as dawn broke, I rolled myself, a walking corpse, out of a sleepless bed, dawned my mask as I hid myself, my truth, away and tried to push forward.

Author's Note

What do you think of the flow? That's one of the concerns I have, any suggestions would be very much appreciated.