Sleepless

Here I go again. Its three twenty three and I can’t sleep. I want to sleep. I’m tired. My body’s heavy and ready and yet here I am sitting here trying desperately to will my mind off.

I know I won’t fall asleep until the sun rises and I’ve just smoked my way through an entire pack of cigarettes I’ve watched six movies that would’ve normally put me to sleep but found myself trapped in some sort of coma.

Half awake half not. It’s killing me I’ve run out of little blue sleeping pills and I was happy about not wanting to start some sort of addiction but without them I feel like sleep will never come and I’m starting to think of crazy things again.

The last time this happened I ripped up every magazine I owed which is saying something considering I have some sort OCD and I can’t throw away anything I have magazines from nineteen ninety six being a huge fan of the collage back in the day I collected them all storing them for something I can’t remember now.

To make a long story short I got the idea in my head that I haven’t been in a ball pit in at least ten years so I ripped every page out of each magazine and crumpled them up into little balls littering the floor until there was one massive pile in which my brother and I could lay in and not be seen hell I could sit in it and you wouldn’t see the top of my head.

It took me three sleepless days of near constant crumpling to create the whole mess and after the three days I finally fell asleep and when I woke up I couldn’t believe what I had done the best part of the whole thing was it took only two hours to clean up.

I’m on the brink of something like that again and I can’t afford any more trash bags. I have an over abundance of tacks though. Along with twelve glue sticks, I really don’t want to wake up to a sleep deprived booby trap.

I just need a release. Something anything at all to calm whatever it is that’s going on inside of me and maybe then I’ll be able to sleep again. I hate these little spurts of pent up something I don’t even know how to classify it. It’s like I need to be doing something but every time I try to finish my book I look down at the pages and everything I’ve written and suddenly there’s nothing there anymore.

I hate these bouts of writers block. It’s like running around with a bag over my head trying to feel my way back to safety.