In purple light, I lie awake.
Unable to succumb to REM,
I stare at a blank ceiling,
Trying to make shapes out of shadows.
I replay scenes of the past,
Only to drown in embarrassment and regret.
And when frustration hits, I bury myself in pillows,
Only to wonder how many hours I have spent
Burrowed in goose feathers.
I shift my focus to the other wall of my room,
Tilting my body on its axis to stretch.
I wonder how much I could accomplish without this state of (un)rest,
In which I can’t solve problems, but rather hope to escape them.
One in which I don’t have to cook in anxious dreams and vivid nightmares.
I wonder about a double life I could live without melatonin.
How many more words could I speak then?
How many new skills could I adopt?
Yet fatigue loops around my waist,
Restraining me
To the same curfew.
But this, too, may not be a curse.
I can only count sheep for so long
Until their white wool is no longer highlighted by black skies.
And yet my eyes crave a darkness,
Even the moon can’t give.
And so without another pill,
I sink into my pillow,
To try,
Once again.