Some nights, I embrace Sleep. I relish in it, my escape. I change into sleepclothes and prepare the blankets and brush my teeth and turn off the lights and all these things that signify the end of the day. And in my sleepclothes I submit entirely and declare the night my victor. On these nights, my gradual descent into unconsciousness is welcomed and applauded.
Other nights, nights not much unlike this one, I battle Sleep, I contest it. And this isn’t to say that I’m fighting an inevitable outcome. Don’t think I’m so conceited to believe I could ever really beat sleep. No, I’ll make no claims that I’m able to stay awake throughout the night, nor that that’s even what I want. What I’m fighting, then, is Sleep’s ability to change me, to shake me up, to make me conform to its routine. On these nights, I hold steadfastly to my awakeclothes, I remain in jeans, undershirt, button-up, and sweater (socks are also a weapon of choice; shoes only in the most stubborn of battles) throughout the night, sending a visible signal to both the inhabitants of sleepworld who watch me being drug into their home and the patrons of awakeworld who view me, like zoogoers, passed out on the couch that I did not take my vacation willingly and that although I am now asleep, I never “went to bed.”
Let me clarify, as I feel I should more often, about the intention of what I’ve said. This isn’t a piece about my sleeping problems. I’ve slept about twelve hours a day for the past week, I have no problems sleeping. This isn’t a late night rumination on the effects on insomnia. While it is 4:13 am, the only medical condition to blame for my awakeness is an acute case of frappuccino, which isn’t actually a medical condition at all.
When I’m fighting Sleep, falling asleep with scarves on, playing Bejeweled until the sun comes up, my crusade is for only one reason. I understand, wholeheartedly, that everything in my life is not right, that everyone I know is hurting and that some of the people closest to me haven’t shared an honest word in months, that although I’ve cleaned up my room in its shadows I still see shit strewn from corner to corner and know that what is done can never truly be undone, that I would sell my soul to fall asleep next to someone, and that somewhere there’s a girl that I miss like hell and I alone destroyed her.
And knowing all that, sleeping feels like cheating.
