Insomnia is a lonely bitch.
She bangs in a 2 am, rips off the covers and interrupts the deepest dreams.
She laughs at me lying in the hot bed, eyes closed too tight, fooling no one.
She sits beside me, grinning and smug, as I troll Twitter, eat a PopTart, read email and try not to respond in the pathetic middle of the night, and wonder if maybe I should be living on the other side of the planet.
Or maybe I was created for life on a smaller planet. One with a shorter diameter. Or one that spins faster on its axis. These ten hours of darkness are a bit much.
Perhaps insomniacs are older than good sleepers. If we calculate our age by time spent active and awake, insomniacs live more. We’re grumpy about it. We need caffeine to function. But we don’t waste our lives sleeping.
Yeah. Even I’m not convinced. I’d rather be sleeping.
Skooch over insomnia and let me rest for a few hours before we rotate back to sunshine.