I’m sitting in bed, writing this, trying to think of something that will make people think. (3:44a.m). I have nothing to say and no words to use to tell you how little I have to say. I could write a poem or two or ten about things I would rather forget. I could make a bad decision and text the wrong person the wrong thing and regret it probably never. I could finish the workout that I didn’t really feel like doing this afternoon, or figure out what I’m going to wear tomorrow. But I wear the clothes that feel right for the day and the me right now will not be the same me that gets up in two hours and fifty-one minutes, therefore, the outfit will not work and my trials will have been for nothing. I could study the geometry lesson I’m sure I’m going to have a pop quiz on tomorrow, and possibly make my mom proud of my grades for the first time in a long time.
I would really like to get up and run- it’s cold outside and the world is ripe for the taking. Lemonade and I, who is also awake right now, wouldn’t split the world and its people and their things- we would march side by side, a team.
My stomach is churning and I’m not sure whether it’s because of something I’ve eaten or the fact that I haven’t eaten enough today to sustain a normal human body. My mom was worried about this when I moved away. I forget.
If I go to sleep in exactly one minute, I will be able to have two hours and thirty-three minutes of sleep. That’s plenty and not enough all at the same time, which is confusing.
I was having a conversation today about self-destruction- where it comes from and why people do it. I made the arguament that I, being hyper-aware of my own self-care, would know how to control the urge to stay up all night or the small task of forgetting to eat. Obviously, I was incorrect. It happens more often than not.
I don’t know what I will title this piece or if I’ll have the gall to actually transfer it from my phone to Herbert. I don’t know how many more words it needs. Lemonade is attempting to sleep.
I’ve been in the same position for over three hours, because I sleep on top bunk and when I move it makes enough noise to wake up my roommates. My hands are cold ,but if I tuck them under the covers I can’t type. My left leg is asleep; my back is aching. I’d rather let my roommates sleep.
(4:18a.m) Lemonade has given up on sleep and is now watching Vines. I wish I had mittens. My bad knee is starting to get onto me for my lack of movement. Maybe instead of a pop quiz tomorrow, we’ll get to take a nap. Maybe the world will end in the next two hours and seventeen minutes and I won’t have to worry about geometry or exercise or the fact that I’m not asleep when I should be. Lemonade has moved on to Netflix.
I’m obsessed with the way you write, everything flows extremely well and it very peaceful to read, Its almost dream like which i’m assuming some aspects are like the person “lemonade” unless that is a name you gave your roommate. But even so, its pleasing, and calm and quite simply beautiful.
This was calming to read. You don’t write like this very often. You should.
Geez, you described some of my feelings so well that parts of this were hard to read. (I write this comment on about one hour of sleep.) I really love this.
I really like your process of thought here, and how it flows. The time stamps and how specific they are really resonate. I also enjoy the vulnerability in this. Great job!
I love how intimate sleep deprivation makes these thoughts feel, and while I’m not advocating skipping out on a couple hours’ sleep every night just to write something, you can turn the lack of sleep into something productive, which is alright sometimes if you want it to be