bittersweet shorts

Nyctophilia ▪︎ 1/2

• • •

- n y c t o p h i l e -

Lover of night; someone who finds comfort in the darkness.

• • •

A slight breeze tickled the hair on my arms, a gentle feeling that I've grown well accustomed to. Many long nights outside, lying on the grass with only the peaceful silence of night and the light provided by the moon to comfort me.

But that's enough for me.

After laying still in the same spot for a solid two hours, I sit up from my comfortable position in the midst of the park as the white owl I see every night flies above me, hooting a fleeting hello. I wave to it - a small, yet foolish action that's become a nightly tradition. It's gone as quickly as it came, leaving behind one small, grey downy feather on the matted spot of grass I was previously lying on. I stare at the feather for a moment, my eyes lingering on it for an unnecessary amount of time, before I shake my head and start the long walk back to my small apartment.

I'm a little over halfway through my third college year, and my sleep schedule hasn't improved.

Actually, I'm certain it's grown worse.

A deadly combination of insomnia and the simple love for the comforting darkness of night is the root of my problems. I developed my insomnia several years ago after a series of traumatic events.

My mind wanders as I approach my apartment, the old wooden door that hangs loosely on it's hinges holding the number 27 proudly. The decrepit lock is solely for looks at this point. I give the handle a firm shake and a twist, and the door opens with a loud creak.

It's not as if there's anything valuable for someone to steal, anyway.

I step through the doorway of my apartment, a damp stench attacking my nostrils and wafting out the door. I wrinkle my nose, closing the door behind me and locking myself inside the ancient apartment. I'd move out of here in a heartbeat, but sadly, my bank account won't allow for that kind of luxury. The kitchen and living room blend together, with a wall in between for the bedroom and bathroom. It's small. That's the best word to describe it.

I open the thin plywood door that leads to my empty bedroom. Several books litter the desk, along with messily scrawled notes and other various items. I pull off my shoes and set them beside the nightstand - one of the few new purchases in here. I glance up to be greeted by the small alarm clock illuminated on my nightstand. The small blue letters blink 4:38 a.m at me, and I shake my head.

I have to get some form of sleep, at some point.

I stand up fully and pull the plain black T-shirt I'd been wearing off, which is closely followed by my pants a moment later. I slide into the creaky bed with a sigh, my overactive brain resisting sleep of any form. Instead of giving in to the urge to lie awake for the next couple of hours, I force my tired eyes shut.

It always takes a long time for my sleep-onset insomnia to give way to the body's natural functions - it's natural need for sleep.

God, I wish I could live without it.

That would be a much appreciated blessing.

Instead, I lay awake in bed for another hour, tossing and turning before finally finding a comfortable position and drifting into a peaceful oblivion.

. . .

The next morning comes quickly. My alarm goes off at it's routine time, following it's programmed pattern and never straying.