I'm struggling to find sleep. Is it supposed to be this hard? I never recall not wanting to sleep by this time of night. I never recall not cherishing my sleep.
I used to have someone to write to in these hours of the night. I no longer do, but I think that's okay. Sometimes, I just need to be my own friend, and not have to worry about having an audience.
I feel so restless and so bored with everything nowadays. Maybe that's why I'm having so much trouble finding sleep. I have tried shedding sheets and shedding clothes. I have tried occupying myself with stories and random, alternate versions of this world. But it's all been to no avail. My restless self and restless mind will not grant me the leisure of being asleep.
So in these restless, but silent, hours of the night, I sit up and write. I write whatever I feel, and I try to make it sound poetic. I feel like it seldom truly works, though.
I try to think back at everything I did today, which frankly isn't all that hard. I sneezed three times. I giggled at least five times over the bands I love. I stared up at the posters on my walls for countless seconds.
I honestly did nothing fullfilling. Maybe that's why my body is not granting me the sweet escape that is sleep. Because I have yet to do something I need to escape from.
But what is there to possibly do? I know there are so many possibilities of what I could do to occupy my idle hands, but none of them seem quite appealing. Especially not on the brink of a new day.
Therefore, I am writing. Not for anyone, not about anything. I'm just moving this pen up and down this paper, forming symbols that many can understand but few will read.
I don't know who I'm writing to. At this moment, I'm writing to the girl sitting on her messily made bed. I'm writing to the girl who is battling consciousness with the longing for sweet dreams. I'm writing to the girl who's only trying to distract herself with more productive ways to express her thoughts.
At this moment, I am writing to myself, because right now, at the very end of an uneventful day, I am the only person who will listen to my words about idle hands and musicians.
I think I need to understand that, above everyone else, I need to understand myself. And what better time to do it than between the abolishment of one day and the creation of another? What better time to do it than when the wind howls softly, a stark contrast to the still-moving city beneath me?
I lay awake some nights and write to myself in the hopes of sleep entailing. Maybe it's my escape, or maybe it's what I'm running from, but end up running back to. I don't know. It's too late at night to have all the answers.