Insomnia

Stupid styptic, soul septic. Peptic devil, evil heretic. Give up hope. Now. Before the moon meanders into sight. Before the stars switch on their shine. Before the sky shrugs off its synthetic blue cloak.

When you look up and all you see is the rolling expanse of blue-black Vaudeville velvet, studded with cheap rhinestones… that is when I wake from my sweet slumber. That is when I slip into my dark robe and get behind the proverbial desk at my cosmic office. I exist to feed off your thoughts. Don’t, for a minute, be flattered- I have little use for your fantasies and the subconscious tripe spewed by your silly mind. But, attached to each of these inane thoughts is a precious molecule; a sleep particle, you may call it. When I suck your fantasies in, a little groove on my tongue catches these tiny, gleaming pearls, and I place them carefully in a chest lined with Chantilly lace, thereon. I make jewellery out of them, when I feel like it. Bracelets, anklets, armlets, earrings, necklaces, brooches, hair adornments. Not because I particularly like how I look with them on. I merely enjoy the feeling of having your peace of mind wrapped around my body.

What do I do with the thoughts that slide down my throat? I wash them down with methanol. And I gargle. The fantasies…the dreams…the hopes- the ones you convinced yourself were so sincere, they all evaporate. All that remains is a sticky coat of black. This, I scrape out with a knife and throw on a ceremonial heap by the back, where, one day, will be born a splendid masterpiece- the Mountain of Dead Dreams.

How do you know I exist? That isn’t even a real question. You know I do. I am that demonic shape you see half-hidden among the clouds, when all the person next to you can see is a sky rabbit. I am the dark shifting shape you see in your peripheral vision. I am the sinking feeling of your eyes being pulled inwards when you look at the clock at 2.40 am, at 2.41 am, at 2.42 am…in one-hour gaps. I am the raging distaste you experience when a plate of food is placed in front of you. I am that cold emptiness you feel in the core of your being. I am blurred vision and black outs. I am the numbness that resides in the tip of your fingers.

Why do I do this? What is my remuneration, you may wonder? Honestly, nothing. But, I have this good friend- Grim Reaper. I owe him a big one. Once upon a time, I was a peasant- unwanted and undesired, in a land of steel gold and sad happiness. He gave me a beautiful piece of jewellery at the most opportune time. A nylon noose, it was. I still remember wearing it and realizing that pleasure was indeed pain. He then came for me and brought me to what I now call home, right next to his prison office.

He likes to keep his prison full. I like to keep him happy. And, so, I feed off your useless thoughts…the ones that coat my throat a sticky black. The pleasure of seeing you one particle poorer of soul, every single day. The dark circles under your eye. Your shrinking frame. Your disdain for the very doctrines of existence. Your vehement hatred of life. Your deep longing for death. Your subsequent- expedited, death. My rewards, they are. Debt repaid.