It’s 3.30 in the morning and I’m wide awake. I’ve tried every position: on my back, on my stomach, on my side, to try and get back to sleep, but it’s pointless.
My mind is ticking, my body is tingling and despite trying to release all that, it’s just made it worse.
I went bike riding all over the city before bed, convinced that physical exercise would help. I was exhausted when I walked into my apartment; my limbs so weary I could barely climb the stairs.
But it hasn’t worked.
And I’m still awake; snatching pieces of sleep when I can, dozing fitfully and with dreams that make no sense.
So I write.
But the words I can hear in my mind that want so desperately to come out, cannot be written, for once something is written down, it already speaks the truth.
Oh I’ve said them aloud, but I will not commit them to paper.
The creations of my own mind are far scarier than anything in the outside world.
I wonder if somewhere there is another person who cannot sleep either.