My Sleepless Nights

I sit here exhausted but awake, barely able to assemble a complete sentence. It's laughable for me to even attempt to construct a coherent train of thought. I really wish that I could take these fragmented flashes and build something useful. But thoughts fly by, slipping between my fingers everytime I try to connect the dots. As scattered as 80's movie montages may be, the champion always come out trained and ready, the house is cleaner than ever, and the ugly duckling transforms into the girl that every jock desires. (That last one usually only involves in the taking off her glasses, by the way... Don't be fooled by Hollywood movie magic, fellas!) For me, I'm only rewarded with mental rug burn.

I've had trouble falling asleep for a long time now. These nights come in waves. Like a school of piranhas, once they arrive, I fall prey to their sharp teeth sunk deeply into my skin. My body becomes a punching bag-- taking vicious blows from my own drawn premises, countless "what-ifs" and an endless pursuit of the truth. My heart beats in rhythms measured by a couple of "I'm sorrys," a few more "fuck yous," too many "goodbyes" and not a single "I won't ever leave you." Eyes wide open, I lay hoping for a moment of tranquility. And sometimes for a second, I get it.

But sometimes a thought can take your breath away.

I wouldn't say I tend to overanalyze. I am a firm believer in looking past the bigger picture. Because really, it's easy to see what is shown to everyone. But it's behind the covers-- the fine print-- that lays the reward. The problem is that as I lay in bed, I'm trying to decipher a different language. So far, my translation is, "I'm scared, I really want you to understand. I haven't been giving you my all and I think you know. I'm not sure if I ever can."

Why do I have to be so comfortable?

Thoughts are not defined by time. Like a film, you can replay them over and over again-- celluloid strips may wear with time but chances are they'll last longer than you will. So we dream. We wish that our version, complete with alternate endings, subtitles, and do-overs can be released as the Director's Cut. But the truth is that while feelings and mental images are not confined by the clock, events are. Our every action, consequential, are in ink. So we settle.

And by this time, I've become too warm underneath the covers and every slight physical irritation becomes a grand obstacle for me to fall asleep.

The sun rises. The tear ducts around my eyes involuntarily water as I yawn. Two particular thoughts come into mind. "Well, here comes a new day" and "Fuck, I never closed my eyes."

Rinse. Repeat.