There is another world at night, when I cannot sleep. Manic insomniac. There is so much to do and not enough time to accomplish it. Every thought in my brain is profound and incredibly creative. I write for hours, and I write some more. I blast music and I sing and I make lists, lots of lists. I go outside, and I am not afraid of the night. I am not afraid of the darkness, since I know it so well. I always remember to take a key and head out for walks at 3 in the morning. I am a ball of life, of energy. If I sit down I am wasting my life. I will sleep when I’m dead. Sleep is for the weak, the incapable. Depressive insomniac. I sit in bed while my mind rots away. I am physically exhausted, mentally exhausted, my eyelashes feel like weights. But I cannot sleep. I stare at the ceiling, I go on the roof. It takes exponential energy to move my body. No amount of sleep could shake the exhaustion. My brain is a lull, but still I cannot sleep. I don’t know which I prefer. My mind is so loud and obtrusive, how I wish I could escape it. Even in my sleep it controls my mind and presses me to awaken. Presses me to realize that while I sleep I am closer to dying, I am closer to the end and I must do, do, do, before it’s too late. My mind knows what I cannot face.
