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Confusion and wonder — that, of course, is something a writer knows too well. We scurry with intrusion into thoughts, whenever they're gracious enough to let us hear them. We watch them dance, lost in their own sway, coming alive for us by the spark of wanting to be heard. We oblige, putting it on the computer, never wanting the dance to end. We press the keyboard to a sonnet we know will work, but they grow weary—the dance falters and they fall. So we sit back, in confusion and wonder. In that confusion, I weather the storm, my heart torn asunder, Wondering why I feel this lorn. Gut-wrenched, forever scorned. Weather the storm — a hurried brisk with a flutter, My head needing another to form.I bunker down the hatches, bracing for the storm. To love is to mourn, vile feelings spewed from the heart, us apart, unknowingly torn. All we are left with is the stillness of the storm, the same stillness that always haunts me, From which I am not capable of doing. It lingers in the corners of my mind, a constant presence I cannot escape. A jovial masquerade of clowns, each depicting me. Footsteps cluttered and confused, mocking me. Their laughter echoes in the silence, a cruel reminder of solitude. I do not invite these people into my home, nor beside me — and yet, I must insist they stay.Stillness hungers for me again. From which I am not capable of doing, from which you must know now... Stillness envelops me. Without a pen, I write it everywhere. I only have to look — I taste stillness. Odorless and cold, stale from a time I can’t remember. Stillness always haunts me, from which I am not capable of doing, you absolutely must know. But I am urged to repeat it. Never a more horribly welcomed sight to see, stillness abuses me, covers me, reminds me I am still... forever.With nothing left, I turn to the restless violence that is sleep. Sleep, drenched in foreboding madness, I can't seem to escape. I only wish to quench my thirst for rest, like sex or food — yet I cannot. I sway with the dances of time, making me see everything. Sleep is a crime — against one’s own self-preservation — to attain hyperfocus on mediocre monkeys that wish to do you harm. No, sleep is deprived only for the few. The few who can’t let go, who are in love with everything. Sleep models around our anguish, with rest being the only solution.To know sleep is to know you — your thoughts and cravings condensed into a warm blanket, Nestling around the cold spots on your body, pressing tightly. Sleep invigorates you, lets you know there's more after sleep. To have hours decided on the premise that this sacrifice of existing is exchanged for rest borders on madness sometimes, With the rational view being that sleep is needed. But sleep is only deprived for the few who see through the rejection of comfort, of formality. Those who need it must succumb to it one way or another, and yet the hesitation that lies dormant rises like a volcano, Spewing ashes of adrenaline through my blood system, holding my breath as if the need itself were worth more than gold — Only to vanish in the warm embrace of bed linen.Sleep plunges you into the abyss, ever seeking the real reason you need it. No — sleep holds you like a bad parent, rocking me with guilt. Sleep, the formidable foe I didn't know I had until my thirties. One day, I will have you. As I count back, you creep in, pressing yourself against me, Only to pull back before the moment — something I know too well. Tiredness clenches my teeth through the window's chill, whistling a tune of deprivation, Only to be seduced by the lover that is sleep.I feel not the notion of exhaustion, just restless meditation, dictated by life’s stress — only the gravity of why we need it in the first place. Cold and unwilling, I grab my sleep deprivation in anger, telling her to love me as I need her, The same way she needs me — only to be met with a cold stare and judgmental guilt from the eyes of sleep. I know not what comes before or after, but my mind tells me it is because of her. Because of sleep, I feel the embrace. I want to taste it — I want to taste her — but a taste is never enough. I chase her around the corners and milestones of my life, accompanied by better men who never once argued with sleep. With them, she truly lets rest. But not me. And not you.I feel her fingers twitch between my mind, a light shock as she pulls on the idea that it will be different. And how could I ever say no? I need her. For sleep is madness, and madness is me...&nbsp;

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How To Stay Awake Forever

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How To Stay Awake Forever.

JackLeroy

Jack Leroy

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How To Stay Awake Forever

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Jack Imberger

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