"No food to eat. All the money's been wasted from last week."
I really wish I wasn't an insomniac. Unfortunately, nobody really asked me what I wanted. Not that it matters, exactly. I mean, my parents didn't get what they wanted either. I was a pretty useless kid-- an F-average student going nowhere, pursuing nothing. No aspirations, no goals and no dreams to be told of-- I can't say I was really very driven. We lived in relative poverty and I didn't really think we'd ever be better than that, so I guess that might've fuelled my resolve to get away with the bare minimum of effort. Putting care into things opens one up to pain-- and I didn't need any more of that. My folks kicked me out, though, because I was such a lazy kid. Maybe I didn't try hard enough, maybe I just didn't take enough chances, but it didn't really matter... I had nowhere else to go, so I got lost. I scrounged up my belongings and made a run for it, more or less. I found a place, I found a job-- I was poor but I was alive. The place I rented was probably the best part though. The old house was pretty whethered, and my broken things didn't look so bad hanging on its monotone grey walls. It was dark and dreary-- lonely and barren-- it was something I could relate to. It was an anchor for me, and it was mine. Sure, after rent I didn't have much money-- but the hunger pangs were my friends along with this house which comforted the loneliness within myself. It's strange how sometimes feeling deeper loneliness, deeper sadness-- it's strange how that can make you feel almost a little bit better sometimes.
"I can't even leave. So I sit in the basement, makin' up rap beats."
The basement was probably my favorite part of the entire house though. It was particularly dark and particularly empty-- I didn't even more anything down into it in an attempt to fill it-- I liked the space, open and empty. I spent late nights after work down there scrawling out lyrics-- music was about the only thing I really had left at this point in my life. I felt trapped in my life, chained by my debts and my lack of connections to anything beyond this house of mine-- so I stayed locked up, pent up by my own insecurities and fears. It wasn't so bad, though. I had a fair share of fun with my writing some nights, when I was really on a roll. The pages of words varied in theme-- some of them were depressing, I'll admit, but others were about love-- about friends-- about living a life to be proud of-- y'know, all the things I wanted for myself. Sometimes I'd lose myself so far in the lyrics-- in the poems-- that I'd forget I wasn't the person who had it all. Then I'd open my eyes-- find myself still in the basement-- and I'd stare for a minute. Those were the good nights.
"Hot cup of tea. It's 4 o'clock in the middle of the night, and I can't sleep."
I guess I've always had issues sleeping. From the nights when my parents would yell through the walls to the nights I just couldn't get my mind off my messy school situation-- I'd had these problems since I was really young, and they weren't going anywhere. Sometimes I'd weasel my way to the kitchen and brew tea late at night. If I was lucky, the herbal drink would relax me at least a bit, pushing me a tiny bit closer to slumber. I'm really glad I took the mug I used to use. Probably would've got in a lot of trouble if they'd noticed I'd yanked it out of their cupboards on my way out-- but the old, slightly chipped mug was something I thought was mine. I don't even remember where I got it-- just that I remembered having some sort of tie to it. It's a tradition, of sorts, but it doesn't exactly work anymore. It's just... a comfort. A reminder of something. A small portion of the past, in a way. But hey, it's still mine. A piece of myself.
"It's all on the peak. So bad I can taste it, while it eats me."
Sleep paralysis is terrifying for those of you who've never experienced it. As someone who suffers from it pretty regularly, I can say I'd almost rather go sleep deprived than subject myself to the terrors of my nightmares. It's like I'm there but I'm not-- in a way? Like a vivid dream, so vivid it could reach out and touch you-- but you can't run away from its embrace, even if its a cold touch that feels like what I'd imagine death's hands would, if such a figure were real. Sometimes I have more vivid-dream type situations-- I feel like I'm floating in a big empty space, hanging there suspended to the air-- unable to move and unable to close my eyes. I watch whatever happens and I stay quiet. There's not really another choice, but I hope they won't notice me. It's so much easier that way. The feelings are so real, though. The touch hits me like ice-- the sounds pierce my ears-- and there's always this foul taste in my mouth when I sleep-- like I can't stomach the thought of dozing off.
"How can I sleep if I don't have dreams?"
Sometimes I feel it creeping up on me. Before I'm even asleep, the cold hands grab me and hold on-- I feel like I'm being dragged down-- down into those awful nightmares. I'll stare up at the light, hoping it might protect me. I'll keep my eyes off the shadows, off the area I feel the cold-- maybe if I ignore them, they'll go away. I try everything I can think of, but it never works out any differently. I'm always pulled down against my will into a world of nightmares. When my eyelids are so heavy with sleep that I can't fight it off any longer, I don't dream-- I don't even rest-- I lay there as my calm, empty world is painted over with a chaotic nightmare. I really wish I could dream. It'd be a great change of pace, if you ask me.
"I just have nightmares!"
I don't really know why it's always eyes. Maybe it's the stage-fright, maybe it's my incredible phobia of being judged by everyone around me-- but it's always eyes. They're always somewhere, watching me. I don't know what they expect to see. I'm almost always the same. It feels like these days nothing ever changes. Even the night-terrors are predictable. Not boring, just repetitive. I could tell you what nightmare I'd have on a monday night versus a tuesday night. It's a peculiar thing, but it seems to have a pattern to it. Sometimes when I'm bored I'll count the eyes. I'll stare out at them and they'll stare back. They never change, either. There's always the same number-- but I forget it when I wake up. I just get a strange deja vu about it whenever I count. I'll hit the number and think to myself, "that's exactly the same as last time," but I'll never understand how I knew about it in the first place. I'm convinced it's just another of my brain's attempts to mess with me.
"How can it be? I still believe something is out there?"
I question a lot of things. Sometimes I think my entire life is just one big question-- or at least a big series of them. I wonder about things like spirits, about things like God. I can't say I've never doubted those sorts of things-- but it seems a lot nicer to hope. I really want to believe most days, even if they're hard. Even when I doubt myself really strongly-- I can't give up. I can't give up on myself, or on my hope-- it's a strange thing, almost like an addiction, but I can't seem to give in no matter how beaten down I get. I'll come home exhausted and on the verge of tears and I'll think to myself, "tomorrow's gonna be better, you'll see." Sometimes I hate my addiction to hope, but I think it's one of the only things keeping me going, really. I keep going because I have no other choice, but... maybe also because I want to get out of the 'bad part'. They say life comes in ups and downs-- maybe I'm just on a really long 'down', and the 'up' is coming soon. It's a silly thing to think-- but I really want to believe it. I really do.
"Some part of me feels a little bit naked and empty."
I don't have any friends. My family won't talk to me. Everyone I ever knew is off doing something good with their lives-- and here I am. I write songs and poetry, I work full-time and live in a beat-up old house-- most of my things are junk and I'm hungry. I ask too many questions-- maybe I'm just insecure-- but at the end of the day I'm always right where I started. I'll crawl out of the same bed to pursue the same day. My schedule very rarely changes-- sometimes I talk to people at work though. It's the closest I've got to really making any friends at the moment. There are nights where I lay on the basement floor and wonder why I'm still alive, but hey, I've said already that I'm really persistent. I want to believe things will get better-- even when the pain in my chest feels so crushing that it might break my ribs. Some days I wake up and I feel like-- if no one reaches out to touch me, they might not be able to-- like maybe I'm not even real at all. I'm just a ghost walking through the steps of someone who might've been alive once-- but maybe I don't really exist. Maybe that's why no one acknowledges me. On those days I put in my headphones on my break and I close my eyes-- that's my rest, my daydreams. I pretend I'm that person in my writings-- the one who has it all-- and I feel a bit better.
Maybe I'll talk to someone tomorrow."All the time I sit and try, you think I'd be down,
every night I'm sick-- and why?
I'm staying up this time."
