Spontanéité

Night watcher // (mix)

"Come on, get up. Rise. Awaken."
Those are the words he would like to hear. Because then he'd have been asleep.

He's always awake, long into the dark hours of night, night by night.
He's tired of his sleeplessness.
If he saw that pun, he'd probably be too tired to care right now, as the sky shifts from dark night to moments before dawn and he can finally, finally close his eyes and rest.
Even if just for a fitful fistful of hours.

He spends hours hunched over his desk, eyeing his books and papers and pens in distaste while the music drums in his ears and runs through his mind. If he has a test, he'll switch to a different playlist and try and focus on what he needs to know. If he doesn't, he's well aware of how distracted he can get. But he can afford it, can't he? He's got time on his hands. Too much. After all, it's not like he'll be asleep for a while yet.

"Night watcher, sleep. Sleep."
Those are the words he probably needs to hear. He needs to sleep, he really does.

But he watches the night pad past him instead.
Like a black cat slinking past, a silent dark shadow, so is the night to him.
Slow down, let me rest, let me sleep, he pleads, but it's only in his mind and the night has no ears.
The night is silent and pitiless. It is methodical. Almost mechanical.

He stands by his bedroom window, leaning forward against it, forehead on the glass fogged with his own soft breaths. His fists bunch up the curtains and he sees his reflection has a small lopsided grin when he wonders what his mother would say if she saw how he was mistreating the drapes. His eyes refocus, out onto the highway. He looks on at the passing cars. Nobody looks back at him. Not once.

"Hush, child. It's alright, I'm here. It was just a dream."
Those are the words he used to hear. When he was a child and his mother was omnipotent.

But she sleeps elsewhere in the house while he watches the night.
His dreams are few and always hazy. Is it a person, a tree, a dog? Maybe even himself? He can never tell what his own mind tries to conjure up.
There is nothing to enjoy about his dreams, nothing to remember.
No more nightmares, at least.

He rubs his aching eyes, knowing they are red with tiredness and there are dark shadows underneath. There's nothing he can do about that. The brightness of his screen is at its minimum, but it's not enough. Doesn't matter. What else would he do otherwise? Study? No, he's too tired for that. At least this doesn't require too much thought. His hand clasps a smooth mouse, his finger clicks. There's never anything interesting to see online.

"You could always try sleeping pills or something."
Those are the words he probably often hears. Well-meant, but grating and patronising nonetheless.

Yes, he could try sleeping pills, "or something". Who's to say he hasn't before?
He probably hates the idea of dependence on pills, the idea of taking pills simply to get a good night's worth of rest. He'd rather fall asleep naturally, thank you. Maybe he's tried and they just don't work. Maybe he just can't do it.
And he can't do anything about his insomnia. At least not anything he's comfortable with.

"What's that?"
"Just sleeping problems I can't help."
Those are the words he uses to describe his insomnia. Simple, casual, even. But resigned.

He's most likely long given up his dreams of proper sleep.
Maybe he'd be able to crack a glimmer of a smile at that pun. He does smile often and laugh easily, even makes light of his inability to sleep. But he's highly likely to be irritated, frustrated, some nights more than others. Nights where he wants nothing more than to sleep.
But he probably thinks there's no point hoping for a real night's sleep.

Come morning, he dreads the ruckus that sounds, the noise that calls him to rise. Whoever invented alarms should be punched in the face, I'm sure he thinks to himself sometimes.
He'll drag himself through the motions every morning, wrestling his brothers, hugging his mother, rolling his eyes at her kiss and at his father ruffling his hair, forcing down breakfast, enduring the endlessly chaotic drive to school solely because of his music. Another day, another heap of things to get through until the next sleepless night.

"That sucks."
"Yeah."

Just another day. Just get through another day.

Another day, another door, another high, another low.
Rock bottom, rock bottom, rock bottom.