I can’t sleep; my body won’t stop functioning like a robot, spiralling out of control. My mind won’t stop. Always thinking. Always talking. Screaming, singing, shouting in my head. Like a choir of rusty swings and nails. Piercing, stabbing, slicing away at the fleshy walls of my brain. I can feel the migraines coming. Little claws hooking into the bone of my skull, digging their way into my nerves. Behind my eyes with torches, burning, burning, burning. Nerves afire, pain is my only friend.
Why can’t I sleep? Why can’t I feel something other than this hollowed out numbness? I feel nothing. Am I more than sleepless nights and days split by migraines? Am I actually here? Or am I just going through the motions, the daily list of things I have to do to pass as alive in this world? Am I actually alive?
Sitting here, alone in my apartment, the sound of a fan my company. I thought if I cleaned it I would feel better. And I did. For a moment. A brief moment I felt like I was moving forward. As if all my atoms lurched into motion. But only for a moment.
Limbo. Between life and death. What separates life from death? Feelings? So if I feel nothing then am I alive? I don’t feel like it. I feel nothing. Just this hollow feeling deep inside, emanating from the center of my body. A hollow numbness, a black hole of nothingness deep inside that swallows up who I am. Limbo. Floating in stasis, stuck in between. Watching everyone else move on and never feeling my own feet on the ground. Never feeling those steps, the stumbling, shuddering, clumsy footfalls of one who has crawled too far. I can’t even crawl. Just stand. Stasis. Limbo.
I just want to feel. Feel pain. Sorrow. Anger. Rage. Anything. I’m in a cage and I don’t know how to get out. I want out. Or do I? What is out? Does out exist? Does everyone feel this numb about life? Does everyone feel all the pressure pushing down, as if we are lying at the bottom of the ocean, in the crushing oblivion? Oblivion. Nothingness. Empty, a hollow shell of frayed nerves and sleepless, bloodshot eyes. How long can I continue to force myself to go on? What is there to chase after? What is there other than this? This emptiness, this severed state? Is there more than this?
There must be more. I have to believe in something greater than nothing. Death is greater. I believe in death. Don’t I? After all if I feel nothing in life, what would I feel in death? Would death really be an end? Or just another state of limbo? I shouldn’t think these things. I believe in more than death. I believe in Heaven, eternal life in bliss. Or do I? I don’t know what I believe. Sure it’s easy to muster up conviction when the sun shines bright. But when the world fades away to slumber and I sit awake, alone in the weak light of a bedside lamp, what do I believe. All my convictions, beliefs, fall away, leaves cast from the tree, no longer a part of the greater whole. Lifeless words, forced fed into me, only to be spewed out in the presence of others. Alone there is no passion, just the empty vomit, the drippings of bile. Alone there is nothing but the empty pages and dusty shelves.
My mind is like a library burned, ravaged by life. Documents cling to charred bookcases, pages curling, blackened with neglect. Mould creeps in the soggy corners, a musty growth eating away the foundations. I can’t find what I want in the books of my library. Useless facts, gathered from the remnants of shattered memories. Shredded bits and pieces of what I’m supposed to be. What we put in determines what comes out right? Well pour all you want in, it all just comes out, leaving only sour curds clinging to the lip of my brain.
My brain, the great burned library, full of mirrors. They all stare at me, everyone shouting a different message. Twisted faces, ink stained mouths screaming, with fat, swollen tongues pushing through rotten teeth and batter, bloody lips. I can’t look away, but I can’t focus. I can only see them all, hear them all. Every word, screamed into my ears till blood drips to the sagging floor, every word a hammer blow to my throbbing temples.
“You are chosen, a child of God”
“It wasn’t your fault”
“What could you have done better? Did you even try?”
“Keep fighting, it’s worth it”
“Give up. You’re worthless”
“God loves you. He says you’re worth something”
“God doesn’t make junk”
I want it to stop. This cacophony of crows and seagulls in my head, echoing over and over. I can’t separate one voice from the other. I feel like two people warring for the space of one mind. Split, separated.
When I close my eyes I can see those mouths, polluted, full of sores. I can see the eyes, boring hatred into my soul, pouring loathing into my heart. But it’s my mouth, my eyes. It’s me, slowing killing myself every night. A thousand drips of acid on my skull. Burning.
Burning, burning, burning. Every nerve ending is fried, baked. And yet every nerve screams out in agony. I can’t stand, my stomach lurches and spins. My head is splitting in two. Skin stretching with every beat of my heart. I can feel it in my temples. Pounding away, a machine beating out a rhythm to remind all that hear it there is no hope. Nothing but the everyday toils.
My body is a factory, mindless processing, producing, every day. Churning out what is necessary to prove that this body still works. Grey matter chugging away, belching black oily smoke. It coats the backs of my eyes, burning the once white flesh. Tired, dry eyes, staring without really seeing. I’m a factory that produces the very thing it runs on. A mindlessly numbing cycle with no end in sight. Producing the shit required to keep producing the same shit. Grey matter working away with no goal in sight.
But what else is there? Is there really a point where the colourless becomes colourful? Is there proof that things do work out? I can imagine it. Well not really, just what I would want it to be. Free, colourful, open, breathable, soaring, dancing. Abstract terms nothing more. A made up fantasy in my head. But make believe is better than no dream right? It’s not real, and fantasies only last so long before everything comes crashing down and the ravenous hunger sets in. I want more, but I can’t see a way to get more. Can’t even see a reality that is more than this.
So that’s it then. This is all there is. This existence, this struggle to survive with no real reason for survival. Do we just live to exist? Do we push on everyday just to push on every day? What’s the point? If life is just a daily, tortuous fight why do we fight? Do we fight because to not fight is the selfish thing to do? Is life meant to be focused on surviving to make everyone else’s fight easier? Then why are we fighting? What the use?
Do we fight because we don’t know how to stop? Or are we afraid that fighting is all there is and, as pointless and self-defeating this fight may be, it is somehow better than nothing. So here we are back at nothing. Funny huh? We fight because fighting is better than nothing but when nothing is our reality why do we fight? It makes no sense.
What’s the use? What is the purpose? This exhaustion but no rest? This battle but no resolution. Hell, I’d take defeat if it meant resolution. If it meant that I could finally move on. But move on to where? What lies ahead? Nothing. I’m already at nothing so what the heck is left. The same as before. Nothing. A big fat blank nothing. And because I feel nothing then I don’t exist. And if I don’t exist why do I keep fighting?
There is no answer to this headache. No restful sleep for this insomnia. Just a circling pattern with no end in sight. A perfect circle, the perfect reason to continue on.
And then we can bring God into all this. I mean I know He exists. I know He’s real. Is this worth fighting for? The end result is to be with God forever? Then why fight? There is no reason for it. To convert souls? Sure. Sounds like another fight to me. Nothing makes sense. It’s all a big jumble, a mixed up mess of twisted thoughts. And what are we left with? Insomnia. And no real reason to keep on going.
I just want to sleep. I can feel the pressure building behind my eyes, pushin outward. Could I, just this once, explode? That would a relief. Just let all that pressure out in one messy, final, glorious, discharge. And then peace.
Quiet. Just absolute quiet. And nothing. Absolute nothing.
So I feel nothing. And I want to feel nothing.
I must feel something.
And I don’t want to feel nothing. I want to feel. What I want is to be normal. But what is normal? There are no answers. There is nothing.
But insomnia. And a hollowed out numb body, sitting, typing away when he should be fast asleep.
So I do feel something. And that something is nothing.
And I can’t sleep.