sleep

When I was a child and sleep eluded me, I remember praying to an unseen, unknown force for slumber. Sometimes I was scared of creepy-crawly monsters; sometimes, it was the stomach pains. Often, it was just the vertigo, the fear of fear, so discomforting it's almost painful. I cried and begged and pleaded for magic sleeping dust; I made offerings; I prayed to a christian god I've never believed in, the moon, the stars, my dead dog and cats, the trees, the sky and the creator of the universe. I clenched my body and pressed my eyes shut and prayed so hard that I shook. I would find sleep, eventually, exhausted from a night of true terror.

Sleep was my refuge. Insomnia was my nightmare.

Me, tired

I keep eating chocolate instead of meals. I keep crying myself to sleep. The holidays are not doing me much good.

I ran away from another party. If I don't belong with my friends so I belong anywhere at all? Cried in the driveway, cried in the car.

My father keeps letting his wife hurt me. He used to be the one person who'd never do me harm. I feel betrayed. Cried in bed, in the shower, outside in my meadow.

I don't know where I'm going, who I am or what I'm doing anymore. I don't want to see anyone. I want to sleep for a very long time and maybe read a little. I don't want to eat anymore because it makes me nauseous. I don't want to think this is a good reason to starve, I don't want to even have a reason to starve, but I do.

Please please please just let me sleep in peace

can't be with anyone

Can't fall asleep.
Can't study.
Can't stop the vertigo.

Sometimes my life is more what it isn't than what it is.

I am sinking, sinking, sank, sunk.



Not sure where I'm headed.

I can't be normal because I refuse to be normal. I wish I wanted to be normal.

I'm not sick I'm just stupid.

PS

Long bouts of isolation punctuated by failures in communication. That is what I meant to describe. Four books in one day and everything is very blurry.

disconnected (disinterested)

Reading too much, sleeping alternatively too much and too little. Nothomb, Sarraute, Zola, Stephen King, Edgar Poe, human anatomy, I make no distinction of the genre, time or space. My fix : intellectual stimulation of the senses.

My dreams are more vivid than reality. At night, I'm a champagne junkie and I wear real pearls ; I'm alone and it's fine. I eat fruit drizzled in balsamic vinegar. I lounge. The champagne flute is ice-cold in my hand.

In the words of Amélie Nothomb herself : « Le champagne est si froid que les bulles ont durçi. On a l'impression de boire de la poussière de diamants. »

My eyes are too dry, but I don't need to see anyone. When I walk outside, my legs feel like lead. Maybe it's the cold. Maybe I'm dying.

I never want to leave this place.