It is 2:30 in the morning and you may be asking yourself why I left the comfort of my bed to sit uncomfortably in front of a computer, permitting only the light of the screen to fill the tiny cracks and crevices of my darkened room. If I knew, I would tell you, but I don’t. I don’t know a lot of things anymore. I let my heart lead me, and it led me here. You see, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything of real meaning, since a story that touched my heart would make its mark on paper. Now, awake but asleep, my confused fingers are drawn to the revealing keyboard and I begin to type looking for answers; figuring out the story one word at a time. It’s not as though I am a mute, incapable of speaking out, but no amount of twists and turns of the tongue can truly emulate all that I feel. Perhaps that does make me a mute; a mute that has been silenced by the sword of passion, slashed across by the swords of irrationality and fear. Perhaps, in all this confusion, the only thing I can truly rely on is the swiftness of my fingers as they grace the keyboard. Still here, I click and I clack as my story develops, similar to the growth and natural progression of my emotions.
This story; however, isn’t simply about my insomnia, nor is about the ability of technology to free my soul. This story is actually and quite frankly about love; or at least the thought of getting there. You see, my soul is easily grasped by the thought of love. That is not to say that I fall in love with every girl and that is not to say that every girl has that power over me. It simply means that I’m a romantic. In fact, a better description would mark me as a hopeless romantic; one who would jump over the moon for love and fall helplessly into the ground without it. This perhaps, is my greatest flaw. This perhaps and just maybe, is the reason that I sit here alone in my room becoming well acquainted with my good friend insomnia. This perhaps is the reason why I feel in leaps and bounds with no in-betweens. This, perhaps, is me.
I peer into this light before me, staring into the luminescent glow which pains my eyes in hopes of finding salvation for my soul; a buoy to keep me afloat amongst this frenzy of emotions, a lighthouse to provide me with direction. One word at a time, I find myself digging smoothly into the depths of my heart, closer and closer to my burdened soul. I pause for a moment to gather my thoughts. It’s hard in times like these to truly understand yourself and how you feel. It’s hard to make sense of a world that’s neither clear-cut nor explicable. That is also why I sit here waiting for words to come to me; for my brain to send a message to my fingers to type the answers to my soul. It’s strange to think about the relationship between your brain and your actions, while doing an action and thinking about your brain. Sleep-deprivation and a confused heart are beginning to express themselves in my writing. My momentum fails me. Words don’t appear on the screen in the same elegance and grace as they had earlier. My eyes begin to droop as physical and mental exhaustion start taking their toll.
I hear nothing but my fingers tapping on the keyboard; not a stir in the halls, nor a stir outside. I can understand why. Not many would wilfully choose to do what I’m doing, but then again, not many feel the same way as I. Wait. Maybe I am wrong in that statement. I say that this was my decision, but there’s something deceiving about all of this. I don’t feel the same kind of control that I previously mentioned. I don’t feel as though I can predict the direction and course of my life, not even my immediate future. I am helpless in that sense; powerless. Love, or at the very least, “Like,” has grabbed me by the ankles and is not letting go. I am not in control. I am subject to serendipity. Fate, destiny, whatever you choose to call it, I am its victim; imprisoned till the end of time. I can only hope that luck will be on my side. I can only pray that it will all work out in the end. I can only let life lead me…and that scares me to death.
#love, #insomniac, #story