Dreary days make me tired. I’m drained much of my awake time due to lack of sleep, frustration and the day-to-day nonsense of my current life - too much drama, too many life-or-death moments.
Sleep is my drug of choice these days, and right now, I'm all out. I'm wigged out and strung out. I miss that inviting solace in the silent moments before I finally succumb to sleep - an excitingly, fuzzy numbness that blots out everything. Soon after those murky moments, I slowly slip down the darkening slope of sleep, tumbling into myself, swimming through the muck of my brain until visions and sounds and smells of dreams jolt through me. I swear I could sleep for weeks on end. It is my home of solitude, the last unspoiled thing in my life. Bar the door, I'm not coming out alive.
Related idea: I’ve heard of many writers transcribing their dreams, laying it all out there for people to interpret and at some point, I will keep a dream journal – if not for nothing more than to try to express the most surrealistic version of me possible. But for now, just writing this has taken an incredible amount of self-control. God, I’ve tumbled.
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