Stopwatch Children

Think I'm Still a Child Now?

Think I'm Still a Child Now?

I put the article down sitting back in my chair. Why does life have to be such a melodramatic thing that likes to come and bite me in the ass every chance it gets? The article hadn't been anything special, just like all the other pointless things people put in the crappy rags called magazines.

The only difference in this particular article, it left room for me to think. The empty words the journalist used to fill the page left a big gap in the whole thing as a picture.

I didn't even busy my mind with the short notion of the people the article was about. Instead the organ occupying the space between my shoulders decided to fill it with something that made my bones heavy and my chest tight.

I was thinking about everything and nothing all at the same time. Overwhelming myself with all the different ways my mind could think of to kill me.

I breathed out a sigh and pinched my nose. My mind was still racing with all the different possibilities, and for once I was actually considering it.

I was trying to take deep 'soothing' breaths to clam my shaking hands and maybe stop my racing thoughts. Wasted efforts on my part, I knew it was hopeless.

My mind was not attached to my body most times but the times I needed to be separate from all the haunting thoughts it doesn't happen; they fly in like whispers from across the room. They manifest like parasites eating away at your bones in your grave. The panic sets in and the nausea starts to take effect.

My head stated to swim like I was drowning in myself with no land in sight.

I picked up the half lit cigarette teetering on the edge of the ash tray where I had left it when my hands found the latest issue of 'People's Magazine'.

I took a drag, the poison smoke swelling in my lungs before I let it out in a blissful puff. It helped me get grounded but in the end did nothing long term for my frayed nerves.

I shiver and opened my eyes against the cool air of the night fighting its way into my bones. Putting out my cigarette I stood and grabbed my empty coffee cup and headed for the door to the balcony.

I emerged in my dingy living room, the carpet stained from countless renting occupants before me. I made my way to the second hand sofa sitting, lifting a cloud of dust. I found my head in my hands heavy with the weight on my shoulders.

It was like a thumping pain, pushing down on me from every angle crushing any spirit or fight that was left in my tiny shell of a person. I was empty and there didn't seem to be anything to fill the void I had become.

The mounting insomnia has been getting worse. I run my fingers through my tangled locks trying to dull the throbbing at the base of my skull. With insomnia comes a price other than the precious hours of sleep we take for granted.

The watery eyes, the weight loss, the paleness of my skin from the hours I spend hiding from the light. When it gets to the point you think nothing worse can come of it, she proves you wrong and drives you to things you would never have done in your mind.

She robs you of your ability to see, she takes your mind and plays her sick little games. She shreds your sanity bits at a time, and makes you believe she isn't bad. Then she sucks you in, leaves you with faux moments of clarity. She leaves you with a couple hours rest as to keep you coming back, to keep her play thing screaming.

She's never far behind and always tormenting you. The alarm on the side table blinks 3:00AM. It's screaming at me, in big red angry numbers. I sigh pinching the bridge of my nose, I feel the pounding quicken at my intake of breath.

I stood walking to the minuscule table I called a desk. My laptop was sitting on the glass table top turned on but sleeping like the rest of the world. Looking out the window on the short walk to the desk I noticed not a single light on in the building across the street. It seems that I am the only soul the sand man is avoiding tonight.

No not just tonight, it seems I did something to the poor old soul that had made him despise me. For I haven't caught him sneaking in as I close my eyes at night, sprinkling sand into the eyes of my neighbors but never venturing close to my open door.

I tap the keys to wake the sleeping monitor and perch on the stool in front. The screen's glare is bright and hurts my eyes at first but I adjust quickly. This is a normal occurrence on the nights when I can't bear another night terror.

I take the pack of cigarettes from my rumpled jeans and light one out of habit. I set it in the ashtray as Microsoft word popped up a blank page with the curser flashing at the top. My fingers like fire shot across the keys turning the blank page into something elaborate, creative, and morbid.

It was the latest nightmare that had caused me to be sitting here in the first place, wallowing in myself misery and asking the sky why. Why did I have to be cursed with this abomination? Why did I have to suffer like this with the thoughts ready to detonate any moment, with just the way someone could utter a word, or the most innocent of questions.