Curse of the Insomniac

It’s 3am, your sleep is interrupted by a flickering streetlight outside the rain swept window. The light casts moving shadows across the cream walls and reflected TV screen, originated from the swaying elm tree imbedded outside the rain-splattered window, the heavy branches leaning forward, trying to caress the frosted glass with its leafy fingers. The dark curtains are left open, for no prying eye can see through it, save for giants and winged creatures. And there, on a large mattress lying on the wooden floor, with the soft snores from a warm body holding you, you lay on your back, and watch the shadows create a dark film, the soundtrack of heavy rain and whispering winds adding to its horror. Once again sleep evades you, while the Sandman sits upon his throne of dark dreams and laughs while running his bony thumb across the gleaming edge of his scythe of madness.

It is during moments like these that the ghosts appear, both outside and within. The creeping darkness in the corner of the room turns into a hungry wraith, the single red light from the TV’s switch adding to the nights malignance, like a bloodshot eye searching for its next victim. In the walls something bellows, an anguished moan, the volume increasing as water rushes through the neighbours pipes. It all coalesces into a maelstrom of terror and makes for eyes that cannot remain closed. The night is spent looking at the quick movements caught by the corners of your eyes, that vain attempt to find the invisible source of that warm breathe you feel creeping down your neck.

But it is those spirits from within that cause the more havoc. The demons from the past and unattainable future, the restless thoughts of knowing but not doing. They feed on the mind, off the corners of your tired eyes, and once fed, they grow, taking a fistful of your soul at a time. Doubt fogs the brain, it floods with rivers of both wishes and dreams, a collective pool of more things you want, to make it a happier life, for yourself, for the warm hand which rests on your stomach, for those soft legs draped across your own. You wonder if prayers have power, if the Great One above is watching, if the chill you feel from below is the Iceman himself, the two entities battling it out in the confines of your tired mind.

And then all is forgotten as outside the flickering light breaks, and the room is plunged into a depthless darkness, save for that hypnotic red light, the only reminder from your visit with the spirits. You stare into its bloodless gaze as your thoughts swim through the memory-lake, filing away the previous day’s events, searching through the vault of meaningful randomness. Then unknowingly your heavy eyelids fall, your breathing slows with your heartbeat, and from waking dreams you step into the maze of your slumbering mind, and once again the demons take you.