I’m almost always vulnerable to the invasion. That light tapping at my brain that slowly pokes harder and harder. The apathetic sleep burglar is here, a lackadaisical vagabond arriving in the dead of night to churn up the molecules in my brain with a giant gravy ladle. I just don’t want to think anymore, I want to be still, empty, light, weightless. But my chest is tightening, and insomnia is straddling me, gripping my throat with a rough leather-gloved hand until I unwillingly submit and awaken.
My eyes blink open and I’m looking directly into the vulgar, strung out face of all my problems and worries. My dashed dreams, my heartbreak, my disappointments. And I’m paralyzed, unable to move or breathe or do anything except let the stress soup bubble and boil. And sleep is just a sexy taunting TV heartthrob that is way out of my league.
Sometimes I’m able to concentrate on the noise of the sprinklers outside in the courtyard, and the soothing sound of the previous day’s filth washing away lifts me out of the mind fuck. Or I listen to the fan on my nightstand spin, the soft white noise my only salvation. But often I’m just helpless, forced to watch late night music videos and feel the time scratching by.
Maybe if I didn’t have any hopes and dreams I could get some fucking sleep. But then I’d just be exactly what I’m so worried about becoming, a sad little drone zombie, numbly following all the rules, never being late to anything, never speaking out of turn, never caring about anyone more than myself, and never feeling unfulfilled.
I guess the only solution is to just hurry up and realize my dreams already. I just wish I could figure out how to become a pop star unicorn mermaid swimming in a never ending sea of champagne.