The night and duskiness is the most troublesome time to be alive, and 3 am knows all my secrets. I’m alone, but there’s someone who knows everything about me, someone just like me.
I should not share it, but I feel you relate to it. It is an unwilling agnostic phase that I do not want to face.
Sometimes you get people who are the same as you, sometimes different. The same ones stay up all night lacerating mentally over some question or situation,
and thinking of whether or not this and that…
Sometimes I envied souls who sleep quickly. They may be the ones with cleaner brains.
There’s this little monster jailed in a room, and this space is in my mind.
I’ve also got a grave case of the 3:00 am guilts and a staircase. With each night, I step up. This staircase is no right. It is leading me to heights, where once I reach, all I’m left with is a fall.
And this grave case: You know, you lying in bed awake and replay all those pieces you didn’t do right, collecting all the bits of life going in the wrong direction.
You know the catch; you know what is wrong and how this all can turn good. With a natural, peaceful sleep?
Because somewhere I know, nothing answers my insomnia like a subtle warm glass of self-loathing, anxiety, worry, and sadness (as per taste).
That’s why I say
The night is the most troublesome time to be alive, and 3 am knows all my secrets.
I feel all this at a very particular time at night. The duskiness always keeps it for me, it greets me, and then I indulge in it, slowly going down deep, with all my emotions around me, with no gravity or like they’ve got wings to fly.
I let them free, I see them at their most stiff.
I do not want to feel the load of these emotions. It’s a strange place. I’ve spanned or may be blended with some kind of invisible line. And I do not know whence I got here.
Though I never wanted to be here. It seems as if I’ve come to a place I never thought I’d have to go to.
At this point, I try to escape looking for people who are still alive dealing with their 3:00 am trouble. I look for another soul that could support me with unusual chat, slowly seizing me out of the grave. I want to talk and avoid the monster slamming the jail. But every time it’s some rare book that influences the clash against drooping eyelids.
I choose to lie in bed, and lastly, with leisurely lightening in the sky, I may go to slumber. After all, what I said to someone who was there with me the whole night understands. This fellow understands;
this monster is in my head, this is the monster I cannot see, maybe because it was not the monster in jail, but the monster is me.
And it is probably only insomnia then I would say.
Many of you may have it. Maybe sleep is such leisure, which i can’t yield.
Or I only relax with people I embrace, which is why I hold insomnia.
I myself have invented this version of me, and I do not love it anymore.
I think this will all end when I get plenty of sleep.
I flop, toss, and turn. Am I sleeping? Have I dreamed at all? Is this insomnia?
I don’t know why I cannot sleep. It was all fine before; I slept perfectly fine at school.