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There's something about sleep that brings serenity. You're comforted by thousands of thoughts. You grow to be peaceful. You grow to be fearful. You grow to be comfortable. There's a liberty behind dreaming. You can either accept your solitude or summon a tribe of ugly phantoms to keep you from inviting the darkness.
Then there's relief.
Relief you've ended today. Relief you've escaped the present and replaced it with silence. I mean, that all depends on the person. Night owls tend to stray far from sleep. They beg for lucid and clear control over their heads, while their minds beg for unconsiousness. The minute they're comforted by hours of darkness, variegations of disaster and perpetual images that grow into memories hoard your mind. By then, sleep grows to be elusive.
The ones who embrace the silence tend to prefer their simulations. They're comforted by pieces of their past, the people in them, the ones they've lost. Even the ones they've resented, they invite them to play. Looking at it from a perspective of insomnia, you never realize the behavior's of a person could voice exactly what they were dreaming about.
The young girl wanted nothing more than to be swarmed by darkness, hoping to be swept away to end up seeing light at the end of the tunnel. It's unsettling to see someone consider silence as warmth. Luna - not being an exception.
She looked so small, buried in my sheets. Her chubby cheek pressed against my pillow, her tiny hands clasped together and tucked just under her chin. She curled up into a tight ball in hopes of keeping herself protected, shielded off. Her dark curls framed her rosy face as she laid lifeless on my bed. I could only picture an inkling of what she could be thinking if it weren't for her light shakes and sharp inhales from time to time. She remained restless in her sleep, but didn't make an attempt to break awake. She looked peaceful to say the least. She didn't look strained or powerless. She didn't look fragile.
Almost like an angel.
Without a halo.
A wingless angel.
All he could do was stare at her. It's been a good two hours since Michael and Molly had left. If it were up to them, they would have stayed the night. However, Michael got an urgent call from home from his mother's caregiver, Rosalina. She sounded stern on the phone, informing Michael on his mother's recent psychotic episode. His mother suffers from psychosis, where she has sensory experiences of things that don't exist and beliefs with no essence in reality. The women is crazy is all it is. She thinks everyone's out to get her, plotting her wipeout at any given time. It's a miracle Michael has lasted this long without shipping her off to some psych-ward, somehow coming to the conclusion that hiring someone to babysit his mom would cost him any less than having her hospitalized and drowned in gallons of medication. It seems to be everyone's solution.
Can't handle them? Get rid of them.
You know all too well, don't you?
I held my breath, consciously counting down from 10 to keep me from spiraling.
