Spontanéité

Insomniac, waiting // snapshot

He had sleeping problems he couldn't help, he said. It meant he slept really late- or really early, depending on your viewpoint. 4 am sometimes. But before sleep came? How did he pass the time? How did the insomniac await sleep?
Maybe he lay in bed, arms hooked behind his neck, staring at the ceiling in the darkness. The room, cast in shadow, with the only light coming from behind the gently fluttering curtains or seeping through the cracks of the blinds hanging in front of the window, left just the slightest bit open. Moonlight, if the clouds didn't obscure the moon, or, more likely, the light emitted by streetlights bordering the busy road behind the house.

Maybe he closed his eyes, as if it would make sleep come quicker. He'd hear the faint rustle of the curtains or rattle of blinds, the whispering wind outside, the crinkling of leaves as they shook in the trees outside. He'd hear his own breath, steady and quiet, maybe hear his own heart beating if he were quiet enough.
Maybe he sat up in bed or at his desk, phone in hand, knowing sleep wouldn't greet him for another few hours. Tired eyes, quiet house.

It's likely that, knowing him, he would lie in bed with one arm cushioning his head, the other holding his phone as he listened to music through his earphones. His eyes would probably be closed, not seeing whatever light filtered into the room, and his ears would fill with his music and nothing else. After all, there's an undefinable beauty about seeing nothing and hearing nothing in the silence but music in your ears.
Maybe his free hand would move, flying freely in the air, as if he were a conductor, or his free fingers would tap to the differing, but constant, rhythms. His piano skills were more than commendable, so maybe his fingers moved as if playing the tune on the black and white keys.

What would he be thinking? Would he be thinking of the lyrics playing in his ears, if the song at the time had words? Or maybe he'd be thinking about how he'd play the piece in piano, if it were a classical composition or instrumental version of a song.
Maybe his eyes wouldn't be closed, and he'd be on his phone, playing a game or scrolling through social media, smiling faintly at photos of his friends, or maybe laughing at stupid comments or memes or YouTube videos. He could be texting someone, if anyone was awake, or reading through old conversations, or maybe reading a blog or article online. Anything to pass the time. Waiting.

He could be thinking about what he'd done, what he'd said, that day, or worrying about a test or exam he would have on the next day. Maybe he'd be thinking about his parents, or his brothers. His friends, his relatives, maybe even a special someone. He could be thinking about a game he was playing, or wondering how he could improve his piano or soccer skills. It's possible he'd be thinking about his future, in a vague way- uni, work, life-, there are so many things that could run through his mind.

By the time sleep finally came to close his eyes, who knows what he'd been thinking, what he'd felt, what he'd heard, what he'd seen?
Just the insomniac and God.