I have insomnia. I can’t sleep. Can find no comfort against obstinate thought. Have to go to work tomorrow. Have to. At the same time. Every day. Up at 6am. Home about 5pm. No matter whether I’ve had 9 hours, or 8 or 5 or none, sleep. If I want to live. If I want to eat. Be sheltered. Have a car for driving to work and other places. If I want to be loved by those I can afford with limited time and money to spend time and money with. If I want to believe things will get better. That I’ll make more money without losing more time. More sleep. I fear dreaming. That I will dream not the happy things dreams are known for. Not even those painful. But those banal. Those obligatory and required and expected that one never feels are fully achieved to the wishes of the obligator or requiror or expector. Not sure if they are made up words. Not sure if with each night, that becomes each week, each month and year of lost sleep my mind further loses its grip on established, mass-approved sanity. I need to sleep right now to gain 7 hours. But I won’t. Because I’m writing. Maybe 6. I hope. And then hope my mind is awake tomorrow and not just pretending. I envy those who need not much sleep. But cynically suspect that that’s just what they tell themselves. And that tragically ironically lack of sleep has altered their grip on reality sufficiently that they can incorrectly convince themselves that they don’t need more, sleep. I’m tired. But I can’t sleep, at worst. Can’t paragraph, at best. I should edit but won’t. Write drunk, edit sober – Hemingway. But I’m not you, Hemingway. Nor should I pretend to be. I’m me. This is my journey. Just wish I had more control over it and not just enough control to recognise the inadequacies it gathers like moss on a temperate street sign. I don’t want help for which something is expected in return. I’m too proud and ashamed to want want help for which nothing is expected in return. I don’t want to be a burden either fruitful or cumbersome. I just want to be, without expectation or obligation or enslavement. I want to feel free. Free to have a brain that decides it wants to stay up late to whatever useless end, and let it also wake when it wishes. But I can’t. I have to wake it when it’s expected to be awoken. And have it do things it’s expected to do. Then have it stay up all night regretting its enslavement to the whims of a society that has normalised exploitation of those who day after day only feign possession of such to be exploited.
There. Is. No. Such. Thing. As. Freedom.