cold, detached, epiphany

Maybe there is this piece of me that’s missing. Maybe that’s why I
quickly. Live a thousand fictional lives but run away from my own. Forget the tiny details and courtesies as some part of me still scorns deliberation and effort. Feel the want, the need, have the script, the almost plan but withdraw, my voice faint and mouth dry as opportunity comes closer and closer to knocking. Grow colder and colder with age. Wake up one day to find myself all gone all gone as my voice echoes off the bare walls.

I thought this time was different but the thing about patterns is that they tend to repeat.

Sleep, rhythms, melatonin, hypothalamus

I don’t want to sleep.

Every word in my textbook tastes like pressure.

I don’t want to sleep because then I’ll have to wake up and I would’ve lost another day to junk food and television, attempts at a first chapter of a story that never turns out right, calls I never make and deadlines that wait in dark corners…to chase me.

I don’t want to sleep because I’m probably working for the wrong goal or staring at the wrong affirmation. I repeat it to myself again and again and again when the truth is there, right there, clasped by a clip that’s as light as day.

I don’t want to sleep because I’ll wake up to another day, then another, then another and expectations will outshoot progress. Expectations that turn a problem into a complicated equation.

I don’t want to sleep.

It’s better to stay up, reading while the heart of the issue is still numb from its time in the freezer and I’m still a part of the carefree day that is yet to end.