offwiththeirdollheads: (Default)
Insomnia. She's an evil mistress. I thought I had succeeded in abolishing these debilitating bouts of sleeplessness that had haunted me in the past. I thought I had finally gotten myself in to a normal routine where sleep was not something I both desperately craved and feared at the same time. However, this turned out not to be the case.

She returned a few nights ago.

Good old insomnia.

I lay there for hours and hours on end recalling all the tricks of the trade that you can utilise in an attempt to try and quiet a restless mind. I counted. I meditated. I tried to empty my brain of all thoughts. I got up and paced frantically around the room. I tried to read a book. I tried to listen to music but alas the concept of sweet slumber appeared to be nothing more than a fallacy. I guess the one good thing about not being able to sleep is that it frees up some time to do some work. So last night in the small hours, I tackled doing some editing work. For the most part, it served useful despite the fact that I was still anxiously cursing my body for not allowing me to sleep during the process. I'm always asking for more hours in the day but I would also like to sleep.
offwiththeirdollheads: (Default)
The world comes at you a little differently when you're tired. It seeks to get under your skin and whisper in your ear clambering seed-sized phrases of regret, of washed-up lies and misguided flakes of advice. It will proceed to pin you firmly against the wall and take a balled-up fist to you whilst you try your best to recite a prayer you remember learning in school. The fatigue seeps through each and every muscle and you know that it will do no good to fight back. So you take each hit as best as you can.
One - for the time you stayed up all night trying to find the words to say that you're not as strong as you might believe.
Two - for the day when you wandered the streets relinquishing the thoughts of stepping out into a busy road.
Three - for the time you drank yourself into an abyss and awoke to find yourself in a strangers bed.

Four, five, six.

You take them all and you swallow each association and you turn them into hard little stones that will forever reside within your physical body. They are part of you now and those stitched-in wishes that you created on your eighteenth birthday have now fallen to the wayside. You remind yourself that it is okay. You're tired, the world is coming at you this way because you're just a little weaker today. Nothing is permanent and this too will fade away as you learn to stop counting the hits.
offwiththeirdollheads: (Default)
Everything always looks different at 3 a.m in the morning. The walls seem larger and the soft glow from the lamp casts a different shadow than it did only a few hours previously. Floorboards creak with a less furious tone, as though exhausted with the constant footfall as you pace backwards and forwards trying to squeeze that last thought from your brain so that you can finally rest in peace. Food tastes better. Music sounds much more profound, you can pick out the tones of a singular instrument and allow it to communicate another message. Another language. Muscles ache and the sharp edges blur. We count the many times that we've been here before. It's almost like visiting an old friend.
offwiththeirdollheads: (Default)
It is in the small hours when the walls close in and the wires in the brain ignite. The perpetual chatter that remained dormant during the day suddenly begins to crawl and scratch beneath the skull and the idea of sleep can only seem like a dream in itself.
The head hits the pillow and the eyes are squeezed shut but the volume of the ticking clock and the babbling of the brain begin to wage a war. It is 2 a.m. Forehead beaded with sweat, heart rages in the chest, it is too warm, it is too cold, the blanket bears heavy, the skin feels furious and screams are forcibly swallowed.
The days events are picked apart and probed in minute and defined detail. Conversations are replayed and the things you wished you had said are rehearsed. But of course, this only serves to make the heart pound faster and the bed grow more uncomfortable.
It is 3 a.m. legs twitch, the body switches position, it is too hot, it is too cold, blood surges through arteries and through veins, eyes are clamped shut, floodgates of thoughts wreak havoc as they snap across synapses. Memories, ideas, guilt, agendas, birthdays, schedules, things to remember, things to forget, important events, things to do before you die, things not to do before you die.
It is 4 a.m. and you admit defeat. It is too late to have anything that will resemble a 'good night's sleep'. The day starts in three hours and you have only just begun scrutinising the tragedies of your first year in high school in the attempt to pin-point exactly where it all went wrong. There is ringing in your ears from the ticking and the tocking of the clock and you have swore to yourself you will smash it to pieces with a hammer in the morning. If only you could... just... get... to... sleep...
It is 5 a.m. there is birdsong. That is the final call. The siren. The denouement. Daylight begins to flicker through the curtains and the exhaustion hangs heavy in your face and bones. You ask yourself 'what was the point?' and you continue the argument while the chirps breed from branch to branch.
It is 6 a.m. Sleep! Victory! It happened! Finally, the eyeballs have rolled back, the heart is now a gentle thud, the muscles un-wring... 7 a.m. The shrill shriek of the alarm rips you away from that peace. You shrug, 'I slept' you tell yourself.

Something is better than nothing.

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Not an Oracle

January 2016

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