First night, second night, third—nights piling upon nights, hours upon hours, a mountain of lost time. Each hour of lost sleep is compounded by the hour before it, a perpetual wheel of spinning time.
My mind attaches to it like a leech, this notion that “I must get some sleep.” Worry builds upon anxiety, builds upon helplessness, builds upon the minutes ticking by. I don’t want to look at the clock, don’t want to know what time it is, how little time I have until I have to get up, have to give up this struggle for the night.
Hyper sensitive, ultra conscious of my body, is that my heart racing, what’s wrong with me? A body lacking sleep, nerves on edge, mind racing, imagining scenarios, writing stories, dialogue, rambling on. In the clutches of wakefulness, the muscles are tense, the mind alert, the eyes heavy, but not with sleep. Falling, rising up, into sleep, awake again.
Anxiety about turning off the light, maybe if I stay awake a little longer I’ll finally be able to sleep.
And then when sleep finally comes, a night full of it, such sweet relief, the embodiment of contentment. The anxiety recedes and I remember what it feels like to sleep through the night. I return to myself. I’ve always been an active sleeper.
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