Sitting in this cold, dark place, insanity is my only companion. He doesn't
borrow anything, and I feel safe telling him my secrets. I've been tired
for a while now. When I'm awake, I dream of sleep. Sleep is eight hours of
peace or ten if you're lucky. I wish I were lucky. My sleep is always too
short. The day interrupts my dreams with its boring schedules and
responsibilities. I wish I could sleep until my dreams became reality. The
day would surrender to my eternal night as I rule the world beneath my
eyelids. I hate the day. It bores me in my fingers. They tap until my
eyes forget their places and roll into my head. I am lost in the hues.
Neon signs flash familiar faces as I fall into a warm blanket of forgotten
yesterdays. I drift and sway until I'm snapped awake by a class bell or the
sharp consonant of a boring lecture. I've forgotten my real self and
pretend not to notice how fake I've become. I'd revel in my own exsistence
if it weren't for the day's needless tasks. No time for fun when there's
work to be done. I knew fun, but now he looks like a distant stranger. A
distraction from this carousel I can't get off. It travels in circles, and
I keep trying to find a corner, a place where I can hide until the ride is
over. I have no patience for the clock. He tells me the time, but I don't
believe him. His measurements are wrong. How can an hour in hell be longer
than an hour in paradise? My eyes are getting heavy again, and this is the
fifth time I've yawned. I'm beginning to like the sound of my grip on
reality being pulled off one finger at a time. I welcome sleep. Slumbering
until the morning, I am happy. Thne the day greets me with a blow to the
head, and I throw the clock across the room. I get out of bed and remain a
slave to responsibility.
 
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