datura

Per my last journal, I think I found the cure for insomnia. It's called "shitloads of homework with no end in sight, still having to work, and finding the rent check has left just mere pennies and lint in my pocket." Yeah so now I am just tired tired tired and I need to munch on coffee beans covered in chocolate to keep from dozing during lecture. That's not to say, by any means, that I don't have interest in the topic, for on the contrary I do! My body just betrays me though, not used to sitting still for such extended lengths of time, and the once elusive deliverer of sleep, now seductive, lures me into his realm. I fend him off, tell him, "Go away! I'm in class you fool!"
But no! He persists, teasing me coyly with eyes that feel heavy, leaded, and I can only chase him away by stabbing him with caffeine, or a quick trip to the loo, hoping the the effort of peeing will wake me back up.
Ah the dead, the unconscious dead, how they call to me when I see the stack of things I have to do. They becon, "Sleep, sleep with us, and all will be well. You won't have to write that paper, or file those taxes."
Except the dead are ugly with decay and rot, and they bore me in their eternal darkness, so instead I will just have to tackle this mountain of obstacles and goals, and even if I am bleeding and broken at the end of the journey, at least I can look back, kick off my tattered shoes, and declare, hands on wretchedly tired hips, "There. That's that."
And one last, my vice being words poured from brains and bellies, my lovely kitten wrote an amazing piece tonight. Poetic snares to both embrace closeness and still cherish freedom.
And one more last to follow the already mentioned last, I am sad to sew my mouth in silence toward my previous lover. Such is the history, the cycle of human love and violence, that the transition from friend to lover and back to friend again, so rarely takes place without trials of mythic degrees. Yelling from the tops of Mt. Olympus itself, we quarreled and stole Zeus' lightning with which to hurt each other, our words storms and thunderclouds. All the while, our eyes stung with tears, our voices quavered, our mighty roars simply hid the whimpers tucked inside our bellies.
Hearing a man cry makes me cry. Hearing myself cry makes me either cry more, or causes me to numb like a limb falling asleep, still in pain, but a different form of it. You can feel the limb, it exists, but for a moment you feel the eerie duality of blissful numbness and static tingles. Except you know all too well that damn limb will scream like the Dickens soon enough when it tries to recirculate the blood.
I will scream and holler and wail when I try to recirculate my blood.
One thirty am, the hour of wolves and fiends, I must tuck myself away into the land of darkness so I may wake tomorrow, perhaps inspired, to get everything done that begs for completion....

CORRECTION:
Lord God I have not found the cure for this wicked insomnia. Instead it grips my throat ever tighter and lets go at the worst moments! And only THEN do my eyes droop into that sinful bliss of slumber. Sleeping in reverse. The clock taunts me with its footsteps away from my own. I can't keep up and I am out of breath.
Yes, so I suppose it's time for the hippy land of herbal remedies. Going to try and knock my ass out with Valerian root.