insomniac files #1

by essayan hart

the trouble is, i don’t want to sleep. i tell everyone im trying. that the insomnia has gotten the better of me again. truth is i never lay down. i scribble for a few hours. cut and paste useless pictures, artifacts of my time spent in exile, out of rhythm.
sitting with the television as if a novel has run off with itself, left me to dwell in the pages… the more realistic, the more it reminds me of my own life and losses, the more im glued in.
i feel british tonight from all the damn television, and i don’t feel like writing. i’ve got this checklist in my head of things i have to do each day. so consider this a check-mark in a box. and no, im not putting any thought into it, so please toss it off.
im not in love with anyone. not really anyway. i dont feel like jerking off.  im disgusted with porn and my imaginations shot, so there’s not a chance in hell, anyway.
i need white paint.  everything i put together is solid and bold. garish. i need something to carve out the variables.  yellow is fucking useless.
everything is a performance, right?  it could be 7am, and i could be pulling on a coat and tie for work.  i could be a corporate lawyer, on my way to fuck some poor sod of some house of cards hes collected and built. so fucking tender.
im just saying, be careful. the screen is glowing and im convinced im allergic.  my old friend is dead and sometimes lately i miss our jokes.  my dad is dead and right now i dont miss him at all.  i will miss him tomorrow, or on sunday, unexpectedly. and maybe then ill sleep.
people can be fucks, but they can be perfect, obscenely so.  a little bit insane, obsessed with the beautiful details, so much so that they grow to hate the broad strokes of society. the noise of it all.  i feel like that now. its 330 am and im still narrowing it down, carving out the details. im addicted to night time. to the sleeping city. to my own waning sanity.
she loves someone else now, anyway. and like i said, im not in love, not really anymore, not enough.  its just when i finally go to sleep, i will feel her hand rest into mine. thats when i know somethings wrong. its the fucking bat signal, that hand showing up in mine.  her jealous lover missing the mark again.  shell draw a lavender thread between us, just like shes always done, and well both sleep, eventually.