Twelve past twelve. Well, here I am. Sitting in a dark room, waiting for sleep to come. Sleep is elusive, a sly, skittish animal, creeping quietly through the back of my mind, and no matter how hard I try to reach for it something else crops up right at the forefront of my head. Books I’m reading, friendships, drama, events from the day, things I need to do, random songs playing on repeat, discomforts. All of which frighten sleep away, making it flee to the part of my mind even I can’t reach. All I want to do is befriend it, show it that it can trust me, reach out to it, and let its mind and mine intertwine. It feels like everyone has sleep’s trust, its friendship, its acceptance, and it comes so easily to them whenever it’s called. And then there’s me, holding out peace offerings like weighted blankets, meditations, rescue remedy, all of which go utterly ignored. Why won’t sleep just trust me trust enough to slip into my mind and pull me under? But until I can gain its acceptance once more and share our minds, mutually, for eight hours or so, here I am, sitting in a darkened room, at twenty-one minutes past twelve. Waiting, in vain, for sleep to come.
A poem I wrote at the stated times, about my semi-insomnia I guess? I’m not exactly an insomniac, I just find it so hard to get to sleep. I was careful not to change anything and just wrote it as it came to me. Considering I wrote it while utterly exhausted, it’s pretty decent. I’m still not asleep. Hopefully I’ll get to sleep soon. CREDITS Poem by me, @-Loyalfeather. Please do not copy my ideas or poem. Images found on Google.
