Lonely People

Insomnia and Insanity

Being a drummer takes a lot of energy. Being a musician, in general, takes a surplus of energy, drumming more than anything else. It took a certain level of strength to pound the sticks onto the drums, and a certain level of stamina to keep going through a concert. As a result, a drummer was supposed to be adequately rested and fed, neither of which I ever was.

It seemed as if every night was a sleepless night for me. Only the nights when I crashed or Molly secretly gave me sleeping pills did I get a good enough rest. Some would call this insomnia and tell me to get some medicine, but I called it an overactive imagination.

Night time was when I thought the best. The greatest ideas came to be when the rest of the city was asleep. At night, my mind ran several thousand miles an hour with thoughts, ideas, and brilliant realizations that had to be put on paper. When I wasn't sleeping, I was dreaming.

Molly had told me that moving into a new flat could help my insomnia. She thought that the change of scenery could put my mind to rest, but, if anything, it did the exact opposite. My mind was more awake than ever before, leaving me to stare up at the unfamiliar white ceiling with eyes wider than silver platters.

"Change of scenery my arse," I muttered.

I kicked off my blankets and sighed deeply. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning, the time when most people were fast asleep. All I wanted was to sleep, but my mind had other ideas. Instead, I grabbed my notebook and pen and headed into the living room with a colorful afghan wrapped around my shoulders.

I was careful not to wake up Molly or Janice. I was sure that, if they knew I was awake, they wouldn't hesitate in hitting me with a frying pan. At least then I would be asleep.

Our living room opened into a small balcony. It was no larger than a dining room table and had black railings that only came up to my waist. We had a small plastic chair on it, a gift from Janice's stoner Uncle. It was decorated in spray-painted flowers and peace signs.

I sat there and gazed out into the night. Liverpool was completely at rest, save for the occasional car and insomniac. Everything was dark. It seemed as if the entire world had turned off for the time of rest.

"Sleepy, sleepy world," I muttered, "Turned off except for those few who blink whenever everyone else lies still."

I scratched the words onto the paper. The sound of my writing seemed to echo across the street, though it could have just been my imagination. I gazed up at the stars twinkling in the midnight sky.

Mum used to tell me stories of the constellations in the sky. Whenever I would have a nightmare, she would wrap me up in a blanket and set me in her lap at the foot of my bedroom window. We would gaze out together and identify every constellation. With each one we found, she would tell a story.

She was up there with them, dancing with the stars. Just like the constellations she spoke of. The stars had welcomed her home as soon as she took her last breath. Now, she's up there, waiting for someone to tell her story.

The stars have always made me feel closer to Mum. After she died, I would stare up at them for hours, bundled in a blanket at the foot of my bedroom window. I would pretend she was holding me as I told the stories I had long since memorized. For a moment, I felt like she was with me once again.

I leaned back in the chair, pulling the blanket closer around my shoulders and abandoning the notebook on the ground. My eyes found the constellation of Orion, with his perfectly aligned belt.

"Once there was a brave warrior by the name of Orion," I began.

I was barely halfway into the story whenever sleep finally came.