Sleepless

The solitude of night solemnly grabbed me by the hand, and yanked me from my slumber. I half expected sunlight to pierce through the window, but a bleak blue filled my room, instead. Tempting as it was to fall back asleep in the arms of darkness, those exhausting thoughts in the early dawn - the pestering song of silence - held a wanderer in a place of wanting. Wanting sleep. Wanting dreams. Wanting rest. Wanting.

These recent sleepless nights and fits of rage have escalated, but today anger sits in between the earth and space. There's an atmosphere to it. Anger, amongst the dust and ash particles, awaits for the troubled mind like a decrepit guardian angel. Up above, it probes accustomed souls with impoliteness, strengthened by a brackish glow; the deep blue contortioned grey, now, stained the walls and my bedside. I drew a surreptitious yawn. I wasn't supposed to be awake.

Hurriedly, rain pounds the windows with intense clarity. The splashes of rain, and the metronome clock clicking on the wall, tethered a desperation to my internal monologue. And, in the bed, the flippant tosses against the obnoxious cotton wore me down. It won. I sat up, slightly moved my head from left to right and creased my face in indecision, thinking whether or not I should partake in my disgusting habit. At the corner of the bed, edging for an exit, maybe I thought it could serve as a distraction - a relief in the chaos of the easy stillness. I guess the cigarettes sitting atop my desk won, too. I shrugged my shoulders, and reached for the small carton, only to hold a weightless box. I wasn't ready for that disappointment, at six in the morning.

I stood in the middle of the room when the rain fell faster and harder. The thunderstorm evolved into a hurricane - one that could break windows, move tables, shatter glass and drown minnows - yet somehow, I focused my attention on the hands of the clock. The ticks and tocks were a countdown for a moment I wasn't privy to. When the window glass stopped shaking because the lightning strikes were gone, and when I saw the remaining droplets streak down onto the windowsill with the orange glow peering from behind the clouds, I understood. I knew the boding vexation had been replaced ready to return again like night and day. In the rapid peace, the ringing sound of white noise was a distant foghorn only I could hear.

Not long after, I walked from my home into a summer heat, aimless. The sidewalk trapped me with it's narrowness; it asked for deference. Annoyed with constriction, my somnambulant mind wandered through the sea of metal and plastic. Standing at an intersection the incoming traffic didn't seem so fast, and death didn't seem eminent from a full head on crash. I know this not to be true, as I stand in the wake of a fire ignited by a crushed vehicle.