Let Me Sleep

Sitting here I watch the world fade from the colours of day, to a deep dark endless blue, fading then to a dull and listless brown, that seems lit up by the lights below it, and then finally to black, the jet black of night as this city closes on down. Twilight has long since been and gone, the noises of the day replaced by the quiet shifting ones of the night, the rustling of the wind in the trees outside the only accompaniment to my typing. I sit here, sipping lemon tea and watching my cat as she lies there, watching me, my companion of the night, ever present, as she doesn’t sleep so well, either.

Sleep doesn’t come easy to the guilty, or those in pain, of any description. I guess I am lucky, as my pain is entirely internal, a product of the mind, I have no physical condition, so I am lucky, I suppose. If you can call mind numbing, muscle racking terror lucky. The pubs are long since closed, and the dancers and revellers long since departed the shiny clubs, and pool-halls. No-body passes by under my window now, just the occasional stray dog, or the odd crisp packet. There are no lights on, in the houses across the street, I count 11 of them, and there are no lights there, none. So the people are in the land of nod. And I envy them. Lucky swine. Yes. Oh god, let me sleep.

Now the wind has stopped, so nothing moves. It feels like I am the only human awake now, although I know that cannot be the case. As the Night turns to day in other climes, in other parts of the world, as the people living there start their day, and I am awake, up with them, as I sit here, typing. Typing. Always with the bloody typing. Sleep. Such a pretty word is sleep. It is lovely. A glistening jewel of a thought. It entices me, teases me with small glimpses, caressing me like a lover, and then cruelly snatching its tender embrace away, jilting me, like only a lover can. Its been so long now, since it came to me easily, now it has to be forced, by the chemicals swirling around my blood stream, slowly trying to pull me under, drag me into the darkness. But to no avail, because my mind will not conform. No. I have too many thoughts to think, it seems. And far too much to remember. and to recall. No sleep for this boy, one more night to add to my mental list, as the world turns, it always keeps on turning.

I have this condition, its called insomnia I think. Wonder what that means. I know what it means to me. Nightmare, an endless, tormented lack of rest, as my soul twists and turns, as my mind turns to mud, and my sanity departs me. My pain has come to life now, and my memories are real. They parade on the insides of my eyelids, never ending, laughing as they go. Stop this damn you. Stop. Please. My own mind hates me. Of this I am reasonably sure. Why would it insist on doing this, if it did not? The voices from the past come back to me, in Dolby digital sound. They are amplified, so loud my eardrums threaten to blow. But only I can here them. This is fucking awful, and I fear I can stand it no more. The pain has increased, first a dull ache, like the one that places you in the dentist’s chair, then the throbbing, like the beating of a heart. Then the mind rending pain of a snapped, and broken bone. Oh god, let me sleep.

My clock glows dully, as I watch the hands ticking, luminously, in the dark. Homer Simpson seems to be mocking me, as he stares out of my clock. Fucking bastard. I am going to bin him later, I swear I am. Half four am, and in another hour, the world will begin to move quicker now, as people wake, and get ready to depart for work, the late night shift-workers replaced by those in the day. Six to six, I remember those, the 12-hour shifts. Better than sitting here, without cause, and without purpose. And do you know what tortures me, the thing that rips and rends my soul. I have nobody too hold, and so no comfort is to be mine, and I know of none.

Oh please, somebody save me from this, I cannot do this, not again. Another twenty-four hours of the hustle and bustle of life, only to be replaced by the loneliness of the night once more. And so this is my punishment, or so it seems, to be awake, forever awake now. I see on the cinema screen of my mind, a new flick, one of childhood, and it is mine. Oh god. Let me sleep. Are others sitting staring at flickering screens, laying down, watching the walls? Do others share in my private torment, stalked by their own particular private demons? They must be I am sure. For they are my silent and loyal companions in the dark.

I am think I may start taking drugs, of the illegal kind I mean. Probably beats the psychiatric ones I take now. Cannabis. Now there’s a thought. Maybe that’s the way that sleep will finally surrender herself to me, coming on strong, like a friend, like a loved one. And I would love her forever, as she enfolded me in her dark, dark embrace. But she is a bitter and jealous mistress, and I cannot trust in her charms, for she mocks me, and I fear she always will. Oh fuck, that’s it, I am losing it finally, I can feel my mind, as it trickles down my back, its turned to sludge. God, I don’t believe in you, and if I did I would consider you a wanker. But I think my opinion of you would change, if only you would give me some SLEEP

Oh god. Let me sleep, please, let me sleep.

Adam Pick © 2004