When you are all alone in the claustrophobic dark, it starts to feel like everyone else might be dead. That's the motherfuck about insomnia; it makes it so it is you alone with every rustling sound, and every creak and peck, until you ask yourself if it might be true, and everyone might be dead, including you. Of course, the bigger concern is how when you are alone -- in the claustrophobic dark, hearing every sound, seeing the back of your eyes -- if everyone is dead, then of course you are surrounded by ghosts.
God, I want a smoke.
This seemed like a good idea five minutes ago, when I was shifting blindly down the hall, wearing nothing but a t-shirt, moving ever so quietly so as not to wake the dead. Now, with the harsh lights of the monitor glaring in my face, it doesn't really seem like such a good idea, but it doesn't seem like such a bad one, either.
There is something about lying here on my stomach, illuminated only by the digital transmission, listening to the ghosts and the night sounds, that reminds me just a little bit of me. A different me; a louder me. Maybe a brighter me. Definitely a more reckless and dangerous me. I suppose I usually sleep through her now. Which must be good, I suppose, because being all alone in this claustrophobic dark feels a little like the onset of panic. Like you'll never sleep again, and you'll never see daylight, ever.
How grandly melodramatic, of course, but is amazing how time can rush by so fast and yet seem to stand so second-by-second still. It's like the opposite of how people in a moment of crisis say their lives rush before their eyes, all condensed into one lightening crack of nostalgia. This is the long, drawn-out trip down memory lane, where the headlights don't work, the car keeps breaking down, and you get carjacked by the last motherfucker on earth you ever wanted to see. This is the trip down memory lane that throws you right out the windshield, takes off the top of your head, and leaves you littered with fragments of glass. Oh. No, that was my brother's trip. I wonder what he saw in his lightening crack? Probably the dashboard.
That's what he got for being bright, and reckless, and dangerous.
This is what I get for lying awake and talking to ghosts.
God, I want a smoke.
This seemed like a good idea five minutes ago, when I was shifting blindly down the hall, wearing nothing but a t-shirt, moving ever so quietly so as not to wake the dead. Now, with the harsh lights of the monitor glaring in my face, it doesn't really seem like such a good idea, but it doesn't seem like such a bad one, either.
There is something about lying here on my stomach, illuminated only by the digital transmission, listening to the ghosts and the night sounds, that reminds me just a little bit of me. A different me; a louder me. Maybe a brighter me. Definitely a more reckless and dangerous me. I suppose I usually sleep through her now. Which must be good, I suppose, because being all alone in this claustrophobic dark feels a little like the onset of panic. Like you'll never sleep again, and you'll never see daylight, ever.
How grandly melodramatic, of course, but is amazing how time can rush by so fast and yet seem to stand so second-by-second still. It's like the opposite of how people in a moment of crisis say their lives rush before their eyes, all condensed into one lightening crack of nostalgia. This is the long, drawn-out trip down memory lane, where the headlights don't work, the car keeps breaking down, and you get carjacked by the last motherfucker on earth you ever wanted to see. This is the trip down memory lane that throws you right out the windshield, takes off the top of your head, and leaves you littered with fragments of glass. Oh. No, that was my brother's trip. I wonder what he saw in his lightening crack? Probably the dashboard.
That's what he got for being bright, and reckless, and dangerous.
This is what I get for lying awake and talking to ghosts.
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btw, if sex were dating, you and i would be dating.