A Conversation with Insomnia

It is 3 a.m. The clock on your bedroom wall halts for a brief second before resuming its mindless, mechanical steps to the end of existence.

You lie awake atop the grey heathered sheets.

Of course, he’s there, what a timely visitor he is, going through the childhood pictures hanging on top of your bureau, welcoming you into his bony arms, slabs of grey skin hanging off of its skeletal fingers.

“Hell is the impossibility of reason,” He rasps in your ear and you could smell the stench of countless sleepless nights on his breath.

You reach for your battered copy of the Merriam Webster dictionary.

Reason: a cause, explanation, or justification for an action or event.

A cause is easy. A man and a woman loved each other very much. You began as a teensy tiny little zygote, aspiring for greater things as you go through countless divisions until out you pop, ignorant as you’ll ever be.

Explanation, on the other hand, is a much harder question to answer. In fact, it’s so hard that you’ve been awake every other day into the darkest hours of the night struggling in its viscious grasp.

People say, just be yourself.

And you cringe underneath the triple layered, bulletproof titanium plates of your facade.

Whispering that who you are is not who you want to be, hoping that who you are is not who you are meant to be.

Your emotions scream in agony from their jail rooms. Anger was placed in solitary confinement; happiness was in shackles, its maniatic laughter ringing in your ears; Someone somehow melted sadness, like a crayon left on the sidewalk on a hot summer’s day. Its oozing form seeped through the bars into your veins and pulsed through your body.

Oh Whoa, not going in there again. You think to yourself as you quickly shut the iron gates behind you.

And that leads you to justification. Justification of your own existence.

Well, that’s another question you don’t have the answer to.

“Why don’t you know anything?” my visitor picked up a framed picture of you and your friends on a trip to someplace you don’t remember and smashed it on the floor. The glass shards rained down on your bed and embedded themselves into your rapidly thumping heart.

“Wait,” you hold up an arm in defense, “There is something. Sometimes when I wake up, there is that one brief blissful instant when I can’t seem to recall who I am.”

“You fool. That means nothing.” he scoffs, but his grim lips spread into an eerie smile, the dry skin cracking and the crevices dark and foreboding.

People tell you to just keep fighting, But with every splash you make, you are only sinking deeper and deeper into the chasm of your own being, drowned his sorrowful, whirlpool gaze.

You are almost there! People scream from the sidelines. Almost where? Ma’am, please, stop waving those cheaply made plastic pompoms in the air, and tell me where the fuck I’m going. Because I’d really really like to know.

Your visitor is standing beside your bed now, obscuring your vision, covering your ears, clouding your senses.

“Hell is the impossibility of reason.” he draws you in with his arms, encasing you in his loneliness and despair.

So you stare at the clock, willing the skinny arms to tick faster, for the seconds to turn into days, the minutes into weeks, the hours into years.

Waiting for the first rays of sunlight to peek through the curtains and your visitor to finally depart.


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