One of those nights when you feel like you’re going to bore a hole in the ceiling with your eyes. Your pillows aren’t going to help, and nothing seems to calm you down enough. You feel like you’ve just guzzled a litre of coffee. Nothing is comfortable, and nothing feels right.
The sweet embrace of sleep is so far away it might as well be a lofty goal, something to aspire to, something you write down on a white board with hopes that you can accomplish it later.
I can’t sleep. I’m writing about not being able to sleep. It’s one of those nights. There’s probably a scientific reason for it all, something to do with sleep schedules and the like, but when you’re knee deep in it, all of that just seems to pale in the face of the fact that you just can’t close your fucking eyes and nod off.
It’s not insomnia. Hardly anyone has insomnia. It’s just one too many hits of caffeine, one too many things on the brain, and a staring down a week spent out of your own bed. I shouldn’t complain, but as always, I do.
This hasn’t helped. I don’t think counting sheep will either.