Ode to Sleep

Living a Nightmare

  For the past six months, I have been living a nightmare. Before my mind was tangled in this mess of my own creation, I had never imagined my own death. Who in their right mid would want to? Only after you've seen your death painted more vividly than anything that an artist might portray with their brushstrokes on a canvas, can you truly say that your life is a living nightmare.

Any sane person would automatically assume that I'm far exaggerating what is reality, but these days it's becoming impossible for me to separate what is merely fiction and what is the horrifying reality of my miserable life. And as I am clinging onto the single, unraveling thread that is my sanity, some dare say that it's fitting for me to be unable to distinguish between the two.

Don't think for a moment that I'm the type to wallow in self pity because I can assure you that I deem self pity almost as bad as the repercussions of being merely "creative." Or at least that's what the social worker, Mr. Edwardson, (whom of which I have become very familiar these past six months) has to say.

Why I choose to relive every horrifying moment of my restless nights, I do not know. Maybe it's because I feel that I deserve this. More than likely it's the fact that all living creatures need to sleep. I know such an obscure thought.

   Now that I've peeled of the thinnest, top-most, layer of the bitter onion that I, Isa Atwood, am, I ask you to follow me on my journey with extreme caution. Note that this is not for the faint of heart. Well that's all for today folks, maybe you'll visit me in my dreams, or maybe not.