photo credit: Insomnia via photopin (license)

This post has been in my drafts folder since winter break and  remained mostly untouched during the past semester. Figured I’d publish it now, when I’m in a better mood.

For a more optimistic and delusional late-night post,  see here.

I’ve had trouble sleeping lately. Every night as I lay in bed, I close my eyes and try to relax. But instead of being swept up into the whirlwind of sleep, I remain stiff and still. I don’t know if it’s hunger or fear or a crush or the cold, but my stomach reflexively churns, sending out shivers throughout my body firing just enough neurons to alert me of pain. I’m scared. I’m paralyzed with the fear of not being enough (good enough? perfect enough? happy enough? I don’t know.), “the constant, gnawing sense of having had and lost some infinite thing” 1

I crave a utopia, where the days can never be too long and the nights never too short. I crave deep connections, emotionally understanding others and feeling alive. Funny that I’m thinking this when I’m alone, when I can feel the most helpless. I knew I had trouble relating to people in public, but this is pathetic.

I know everything will be better in the morning. I’m sure of it. Or at least I desperately hope so.

  1. David Foster Wallace, This is Water 

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