Don't Eat The Yellow Snow

It is a plague, a sickening disease that serves only to strike down the unwary as they least suspect it. These were his thoughts as he tossed and turned helplessly between the sheets. He clenched his eyes tight, then opened them. The only discernable difference was the muddy blood red glow of the numbers on the clock providing the only light in the room. The night was cold, but black as pitch and soundless. Starlight failed to penetrate the thick blankets of cloud. With no moon to speak of the night was dark, dark like the depths of the tomb itself, no wind to provide sound, just perfect silence and blackness. He rolled onto his back, staring once more at the ceiling he knew lay above him. Insomnia is the most destructive of all human afflictions. Taking advantage of humanities insecurities, fear of desolation, fear of solitude. On a night like this, one could not help but feel adrift in a sea of peaceful souls. The world is sleeping, for now.
A warning siren cuts the still night air, suddenly, and without warning. He takes solace in the fact that he is not the only one awake in the small hours. Too soon the siren fades, and with it his reassurance. The silence envelopes him, so perfect and yet so flawed. The sounds of the silence assault his ears. He tries unsuccessfully to shut them out, but fails dismally. Every tiny sound he makes seems amplified to extremes. The rustle as his toe twitches beneath the sheet, the gentle liquid sound of his swallow, the faint murmurs of his heart. Even the house begins to aid him, faint creaks and rustlings however provide fuel for his imagination, and paranoia kicks in. The questions start. "What if?", However gradually become more refined, more direct "Who are you?" "What are you doing here?" "What are you going to do with your life?" "Where are you going?" Do you know who you are? Does your life have purpose? Or are you merely a vessel, cast out into the oceans of existence with no definite point or purpose, merely to exist? The harangue seems real, like a small child being lectured by an irate parent. No, he rejects this analogy, like an interrogation. So real he can almost feel the heat of the lamp on his face. He begins to yearn for the silence that seemed so loud minutes before. Minute before, he corrects himself as he looks towards the clock again. The red number mock him, happily flicking away, shearing seconds, minutes, hours, days, months and years off his meagre existence with no thought, and no sign of ever relenting. A terrifying thought.. "Am I doomed to die alone?" "To live out my existence and eventually expire in my solitude? Only to be discovered two years later when my corpse is so desiccated that only the rats that fed off me will mourn my passing? The voices start again, he recognises them. They are all his own. Different variations. But essentially the same. The questions come again. Faster than before, Angry, Sad, Melancholy, all the voices meld into a hubbub till he can no longer discern the words. Mentally he screams out for them to stop, but they are as unrelenting as before, attacking his weakest attributes, his insecurities, his fears. It is in the depth of night, when man is isolated and alone that he becomes his worst enemy. Comfortable within the light of day, the bustle, the distractions, something always happening, sound, light, colour that we are distracted from our own worst enemy. At night however, the stillness, the dark, the silence. Loneliness, isolation, fear of the dark, terror at things that go bump, All of humanities fears compounded into one horrifying experience. He reflects. Mankind's greatest attribute is its imagination. The ability to create, dream, sculpt pictures in the mind and make them tangible. Everything from the most breathtaking Cathedrals to the most horrifying weapons has be spawned from the minds of men. Which is why imagination will be humanities biggest downfall. It can never be trained. Never can it be shut off or locked away. It can be ignored for a period of time, but rest assured, when tossing and turning on a silent night like this, it would return. He shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs and cursed the sandman for his tardiness. He turned on his side, teetering on the edge of consciousness, waiting for the night to claim him. He felt himself slipping, only to be jerked back by his tether to the mortal world, in much the same way a bungee jumper is snapped back up when they run out of rope. It was infuriating. Again the silence became deafening. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run. He wanted to curse the silence, Curse the night and curse whatever God would allow this nondescript form of psychological torture take place. Realising the futility of these thoughts, he sprawled on his back again, letting his eyes gently flutter closed. He regulated his breathing, and attempted to relax. He used an old technique taught to him of conjuring an image to mind, and concentrating on it until it permeated every fibre of his being, and then slowly erasing the picture, and clearing his mind until he thought of nothing. He strove to attain this condition of relaxation. He envied the monks who could make their minds a blank slate. He tried conjuring many images. Nothing worked. He was still haunted. Faces appeared to him, smiling faces, happy faces, the sounds of tinkling laughter. Images he couldn't deal with right now. He pushed them to the back of his mind, and locked them away again, hoping they would not escape anytime soon. He wondered, if it were possible for him to just blurt everything out in an uncontrollable torrent one day. If he could pour out all his emotion, all fear, all hate that is locked away within his mind. If that were possible. It seemed like an unobtainable dream. And most probably was.
Nonetheless, it was more food for thought. He imagined what the conversations would be like, when he told people what he knew, what he felt, what he dreamt. He was not comforted. He suddenly remembered an incident that day. An unrelated incident, to anything he was turning over in his mind. But a cup of coffee, upset by a careless elbow tumbling end over end and splattering the dark brew as it fell. He was puzzled. Why is this relevant? Coffee should be the furthest thing from my mind. It contains caffeine, and that is a stimulant, not conducive to sleeping well. He wondered how much caffeine he has had in his lifetime, and was nauseated. Barely a day passed where another mug of that delightfully strong home brew was passed down his gullet to keep him alert. There was probably his downfall. He recalled the lines of a poem he once read "I have measured my life out in coffee spoons". He empathises with this situation, realising that the notion rings far too true in his own life. T.S Eliot penned those words he recalls. Do I dare disturb the universe?
At this stage, he feels like he would, if only to commit himself to oblivion for the next three hours before he needs to awake.
Two and a half, he corrects himself.
Sleep, seems like such an essential thing. A natural function, as simple as breathing, or digestion, which should by rights come naturally to him. However for another night it eluded him and left him grasping at straws yet again.
Somewhere in the distance a car squeals its tires, faintly, yet audible. Sound travels far on a still night. He tries to predict its location, but gives up. A dog yaps, somewhere nearby, but it too eventually succumbs to the lures of dreamland.
For no good reason he thinks of marriage. And a solid commitment to a single person. It seems unbelievable to be able to bear ones soul. Time seems so precious, and so wasted.
He turns and re turns with frustration. He tries to rationalise. Da Vinci rarely slept, and he was brilliant. You are neither brilliant or Da Vinci his mind replies. Edgar Allen Poe said on the topic of sleep "Those bizarre slices of death, how I loathe thee". Suddenly he can understand the predicament of the poet, and why his writing is so tortured. You cannot hide anything from yourself. Maybe you can convince yourself for a time, but it all too soon bubbles its way back to the surface, and re groups for a psychological battery of megalithic proportions. He rubs his eyes. He lies still, thoughts still yammering backwards and forwards in his head, but like discussion in a crowded room, he hears nothing. Only noise.
A sigh escapes his lips.
Sleep stubbornly refuses to claim him.
He sits up, pulls back the curtains. The sky looks bruised. As if mother Earth herself is hurting. Faint pinpricks of streetlights glimmer from far away. Their sickly sodium glare only serves to make him scowl in contempt. Thankfully, trees shield most of them. His imagination rears its ugly head again, letting him see things that aren't there, things in the shadows. Silhouettes of the people he cares for, outlines of the most inhuman monsters imaginable. He pulls the window open slightly. Frosty night air rushes in. It feels good, crisp and refreshing. It tastes sweet, like biting into a ripe piece of fruit. He inhales deeply. His lips are chapped, his mouth dry. As if the sandman he cursed earlier took offence, and deposited his nightly share of the dust into his mouth. A water bottle sits on the sill. Uncapping it, he swears he catches the lingering aroma of mint, which only serves to stir up new memories, open old wounds. He gulps the water. It is cold from its proximity to the window, but tastes faintly stale. Stagnant. He struggles to remember the last time it was changed, but can't recall. Defeated he collapses back to the mattress, but does not draw the covers over him. He realises that he felt hot, suffocated even the whole time. His eyes close again, but to no avail. He becomes cold, drawing the covers tight around him. The rends in his soul torn open by memories are flowing freely. The emotion is destructive; he curses himself for being so feeble, so weak-minded.
"What is love?"
The voice surprises him, so innocent and childlike, is undoubtedly his own. But it is a voice he has not heard for a long time. It is full of the innocence, the childlike exuberance that he once had. Once when he still had hope. Once when he still had dreams. Once upon a time when his biggest night-time fear was the bogeyman. Still, he is taken by the simplicity of the sudden query, but more taken at his inability to answer it. Faces fly at him in his minds eye, Friends, family, lovers. He still struggles to quantify the emotion.
"Have I ever felt love?"
The voice again, Infuriating him in its innocence, its hopefulness. In light of it he feels six again. Back before the world broke him. He turns the question over in his mind, in much the way a connoisseur of fine wine would turn the liquid thoughtfully in his mouth before swallowing.
One face springs to mind. And a thousand words. He blocks them out.
"Will I ever feel love and be loved in return?"
The notion of answering in the negative to this question is heartbreaking. He ignores it. Questions keep coming. The child laughs. The high tinkling laughs of a child, Carefree and unburdened. His spirit broken, he sags, letting the laughter taunt him.
"SHUT UP!" He screams within his mind.
The laughter collapses into broken sobs. The sobs are that of the child. Himself. They gain volume, until they reach fever pitch. He tries to block his ears. Nothing will stop them. He cries out feebly.
And then they are gone.
Silence once more.
The voices are quieted. No more questions. No more mockery. Noone to be angry at but himself, and the war being waged inside his head.
He realises the futility of trying to claim sleep
Kicking back the covers he turns on the computer.
And turning his back to the clock and its subtle mockery.
He turns his back on the slumbering world.
And he writes.

:: Don't Eat The Yellow Snow - Insomnia ::