A letter from an insomniac
More of just a thought dump really. When a human mind has decided that there are more important things than sleep, there is no way to prevent said mind from remaining active in thought and nuerotransmission. As one fidgets it becomes obvious that just laying around will only make for a boring 8 hours, why not do something productive. The problem with this becomes the sensory overload that one's brain can experience, further deepening the unrest.
As you dive into rabbit holes of the deep internet to just occupy your busy mind. You end up researching whole essay topics while playing beat heavy music with simple lyrics to steady the thought process.As you research psychological disorders, serial killers, riddles, and even paradoxes, you sit and let the stream of information ease your mind. Your fidgeting lessens to a level that you now consider manageable. Now finding yourself on the inner monologue train of just thinking.
I always try to write my thoughts directly from the brain because that yields the best result. Overthinking lowers the descriptiveness and honesty of writing as you overthink every letter and space. I find myself deciding to just...type. type what I think to share because that will give someone and inside look to my brain at night. Of course I never share such thoughts in such a successful manner under the sun because it becomes difficult. If your thoughts are over thought they sound unreal and for lack of better terms idiotic. I sometimes avoid punctuation as to not disrupt the thought flow.
I can think like this for hours on end with no stopping as long as something runs in the background. Stories, thought, alternate futures presents and pasts. My mind is a universe upon itself that I can warp and shift how I want. For once I am the one in control. Nothing and nobody can touch me.
As I sit at a place that feels like home, yet I feel unrest yet I think it is for a reason. There can be rest tomorrow for now exists and why wait. As I jump from planet to planet in my mind, writing full books, songs. Imagining the future near and far. Hoping tomorrow feels as good as today. As I'm sure you havent made it to this point it is mostly my own venting point.
I'm not depressed, or anxious, I'm free. Free of parental chains and my own standards. Though I have a sense of unrest physically, I'm at peace. Among the music flowing through my mind and the words that are produced from and empty book, being written as quickly as I'm thinking. If I wanted I could make a whole world with only the power of my mind. A world just like ours, but 30 years in the future. A world where there are titans and faeries and mermaids. A world where we have all gone to hogwarts. A world where we all have magic. And though it isnt real, it is always there. I truthfully believe that there are so many possibilities in life that worrying is sometimes unnecessary, yet the human brain likes to think otherwise.
All I can do is ease myself. I am better than what I believe, I am capable and talented and worth a damn whether others think so or not. I have made friends with the monsters in my closet and the demons under my bed. They have become friends that warn of troubles to come and I am not afraid to call them out when they are being irrational. I can laugh and smile and cry and scream and feel. And that is ok. I can be sad over this song, I can be happy about this memory, I can be angry at my parents because that is ok.
And sometimes I dont feel and I just am. And that is ok because then I stay out of trouble. I'm not too loud, or a burden, or being irrational because I can be like that. I am just here and in a state of nothingness. A break from the rampant emotion of daily life. I often get so happy that I tire myself out. When I do nothing all day and feel nothing I can be up till 3 and awake at 8, but when I go and play and cry and laugh and scream I often fall asleep at 8 instead because I am tired. And it is in my states of nothingness that I find my moments of genius as the creative side of me joins with the analytic and all there is is thought. And if you are still listening then congratulations, I dont think you are still listening though. For I cant see why it's probably just bothering you and I am sorry. But I feel better. Like just pouring my thoughts out into a little purple message bubble made the unrest...rest. as i spew words like a rainbow fountain of youth my fidgeting slows and my emotions ease to a crawl. The beat slowly changes with the music and flows with my own heart beat like a boat along the river. As my thought process fluctuates with the music and I take moments to gather my brain waves. A new song to a new thought train.
As I switch through realities I see different versions of myself that I want to be, some of them unattainable I see drawings of us that I wish I could draw, all of them in different styles.
One version of myself I see with a pair of feathered wings that fade from a dark blue to a scarlet red as I fly and am free. I've always had an obsession with flying. The sense of freedom and passion as you feel the wind over your back and you holler into the wind and you swear you hear it respond to you. Like its calling you. Maybe that's how Icarus felt before flying too close to the sun.
Another version of myself shifts into a wolf with fur that flows from dark gray to white in swirls. Being able to shapeshift has been another obsession for me since a young age. It made me feel strong and powerful. Like I could fight against everything I hated in this world and I would win. I felt powerful in a way I had been deprived of. I used to growl when I was angry, I still sometimes do. Being able to run with the speed and agility of a wolf has always peaked my interest, just barely feeling your feet hit the ground as you are pushed further forward. And if you saw someone in trouble, you had the ability to end it as peacefully as you needed to.
I have always seen freedom and power as a luxury I am denied. Afraid to make my own choices as I never believed I truly had any. For if I did make a decision it was always wrong or selfish.
A Letter From An Insomniac: 1185 words.
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