Insomniac

'No rest for the wicked' – that's what they say. Am I wicked then? If not, then why don't I get any rest?

There's no noise, no light, no rough blankets or hard mattresses, so why don't I get any sleep?

My eyes don't droop, the soft pillows and crisp sheets don't beckon to me, my body doesn't begin to shut down.

I lay in the dark staring into space, silently waiting for the next day to come, and wondering whether I'll get through it. Who knows what life will bring or whether life will be terminated.

I'm not scared of dreams, nor am I scared of nightmares. They can't get me – they're not real. Then again, how do we know what's real?

Does going to sleep feel the same as dying? How do I know if I'll wake up tomorrow morning? Would anyone notice if I didn't?

Now you probably think I'm scared of dying in my sleep.

I'm not.

I'm not scared of dying – what have I got left to live for?

You don't know, but you don't know me. No one knows me anymore, not even me. I can't get through to myself, I can't understand. I wouldn't be surprised if my head exploded.

Then I could join them.

Everyone who's gone, everyone who left me early, everyone who died before their time, everyone I've lost.

Maybe I'd be able to sleep then.

Please review!

Tanya*