Sleep has become a distant dream. Every night, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, watching the thoughts flicker in front of my eyes. Tendrils of consciousness stream out, pulling me in thousands of different directions at once; one path is writing a novel, another is solving algebra. There is too much to block out, and thus the thoughts hold me, forever tugging back and forth, tearing me apart.
Tears stream for my lost love, but in a second they are gone, replaced with another memory. Faint lullabies write themselves in my head, but not even those succeed in calming my mind enough to let me find sleep.
I have become an insomniac.
I feel pen and paper in my hands, longing to write. This desire is what keeps me awake most nights. Without my pen, how can I sift through this mess? How can I create order from chaos?
 Broken_Soul_Torn_Mind · Tue Sep 30, 2008 @ 12:32am · 1 Comments |
