From the back of my journal

“I’ll have to wake up”

as told by an insomniac

I hate sleeping. Maybe because I don’t do it often. Sitting up in bed, forced to listen to my sister’s deep breathing, I hate myself for not doing the same. I lie on my back and stare at the clock’s projection on my ceiling. Minutes move slower at night. I know it.

The black air turns milky with lazy sunlight. The darkness is giving me a few precious moments to fall asleep. That’s when my strength melts, my resolve fades away. I stop praying for my friends and family, for the world’s broken condition, and start begging. Most often, silent tears twist my face. Sometimes I’m granted the two hours of silence left. Others I lie awake until someone gets out of bed.

One might think that if I get to sleep, it’s better. I believe it’s worse. If I fall asleep, I always wake up with a feeling of dread. I fumble to the bathroom, switch on the light, and expect my reflection to distort into a horrid monster. But it’s only me looking back.

If darkness remains, I turn out the light and return to my bedroom. Something follows me. It’ll grab me if I don’t get into bed and under the covers quick enough. Who knows what it plans to do then?

It must have been some bad nightmare to warp my imagination in such a way, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it was about. All I know is, if I go back to sleep, it’ll haunt me again. Lying awake is torture, but sleeping is worse. Because then I’ll have to wake up.