I wrote a poem the other day.
It’s rough and disjointed and visually inconsistent, but it’s actually on the page, damn it.
In fairness, I too am rough and disjointed and visually inconsistent, so at least the foundation of the piece is true to its author.

This insomnia, while good for brooding and general malaise, is unhealthy. It would be easier if I was an issue I could easily turn a blind eye to, but unlike things like hypochondria or something, I am quite aware that I am awake when I really shouldn’t be. There’s nothing rational about it, either — I (usually) know that I’m going to wake up in the morning, but that feeling of slipping away into darkness petrifies me enough to where I find myself doing whatever I can to avoid laying down. The only thing that helps is melatonin, but even though it’s a natural remedy, that doesn’t mean I’m not worried about becoming dependent on it.

The fact that my phone (which is also my alarm clock, because we are living in the future) is on the fritz doesn’t make getting Lor ready for school any easier. There’s a reason why Friday is my favorite day of the week, people.

Oh, boy, with the day completely booked solid and running on so few hours of sleep… well, let’s just say that it’s going to be a fun time.