I couldn’t sleep last night, and I never can. I despise the wicked cycle I’ve succumbed to. My sleep bank is years in debt, and I owe my body hours and hours. It will never be paid off.
It was four a.m. when I crashed. Sometimes I feel as though I am shackled to my sheets, because they are not always where I want to be. I’ll twist for hours, the cloth grabbing at my legs and tangling between my calves. That’s how I felt last night, and the night before last, and nearly every night that I’d rather be awake. I stared at the clock until five-thirty, I looked to the wall, I looked to the ceiling. But all I could think of was England, and Italy, and cereal.
There was only one of the three that I could satisfy at the moment, so I got up and poured myself a bowl of Golden Grahams, then proceeded to stuff my face with anything I could get a hand on: bread, peanut butter, toast and milk. At six I quietly set my dishes in the sink and drug my weary, restless body back to my sheets once again.
Each night I wonder, why sleep has forsaken me. Why I am this creature of the night.
Why.
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