Strange bouts of hellish insomnia beating the faith out of you every night after prayer. The constant consciousness convincing you there is a God, convincing you there never was one. A relentless reality bleeding night into day with the same seducing sunset consuming the same vengeful sunrise.

As depletion gets the better of you you’ll promise strangers and stragglers you’ll get through, answering questions no one asked, trying to convince the walls it will be better tonight. But days blending with days will prompt a bargain with the darkest corner of the room for any bit of merciful suffocation.

Insomnia will do that to you, drive you to a madness to rival Oedipus, push you into a beggar’s quixotic desperation. Insomnia will rob you of lucidity in a week, it will make a mockery of intention, and damn any hint of motivation. You’ll become disillusioned with reality, you’ll find the notion of existence disturbing and devastating. You’ll spend every hour looking for release from sight, an escape from your own thoughts.

Insomnia is a game, you are a toy. Each night you’re played with tossed about as a helpless sack of bones. Each night you are beaten by your own body, a cannibalistic crusade in the moving matter of your brain. Gnawing at yourself, wearing your will down to a nub. Each night you attempt to trick yourself into mesmerization your mind the only weapon formidable against your weak and pathetic body. You your own hypnotist, you your own cage. Locked into the same bruised body as the night before flailing between the sheets. 

This life long damnation, is inaudible, leaving you isolated in rooms full of people. This inarticulable torment implanting lunacy in your every move, taking the trust left in your bones to make nothing a certainty, amplifying the entropy, playing a muted moan between your eyes.

A week of sleeplessness will make every movement a panic, every delirious word something spoken by a stranger in a dream. You will cease to trust your memory, you will cease to act with ease. Insomnia some unnamed bedfellow, a beast you spend your nights with, some sickness trapping you within yourself to fight the thrashing night.

And each morning as lovers and proprietors rise all you can muster to describe your ongoing agony is a muttered and mumbled: exhausted.

June 23

Leave a Reply