Sometimes I refuse to go to sleep, because it’s like officially recognizing the fact that tomorrow is coming. And, for
short periods of time, I think that I can postpone the inevitable. But the sad
fact is that time keeps going, it doesn’t slow down if you ask nicely, and it certainly doesn’t stop for
anyone. But when it’s
late at night and darkness has eased its way into my bedroom, when its army of
shadows has murdered every last speck of light, I know it’s only a matter of time. So I put the pen to the paper and I try to write my way out.
For a while it works and I nearly lose myself completely, but the journey is never
long enough; I'm dragged away prematurely.
I'm pulled kicking
and screaming back into reality; back into the
darkness. And the
moment I land the night consumes me, inch by inch, tearing me apart
until there's nothing left but the shreds of a girl who used to believe in
something. A girl who hoped and loved and lived. A girl who
can no longer face her own reflection,
a girl who has lost the ability to even cry
because she knows she doesn’t deserve the tears.
That is why I cannot sleep. Because I know what
awaits me when I close my eyes, I know that the darkness will bury me alive,
squeezing the air out of my lungs with each second. The darkness is eating me whole and I all I can do is sit and
wait and hope. Hope that they hurry up. Hope that they end this miserable
existence. Hope that
they don’t take their time. Hope to die.