Sleepless Nights and Choruses

Chapter 1: Lonliness

Eleven. I was eleven. I was informed that my lack of ability to sleep was due to a genetic disease named 'insomnia'.
Therefore I am labeled as an insomniac.
You can tell by the faint charcoal circles under my eyes. I would normally cover them up with makeup, but it's five thirty-eight AM and I'm lying awake in my bed.
Mainly how I spend most nights.
Gazing at the ceiling; pondering my endless, disastrous thoughts swirling about my mind. I can normally endure about four days until by body collapses in exhaustion.

I'm fourteen now. Three years of sleepless nights and cold-blooded memories wrapped about my neck.
Will it ever end? Who knows. Can I stop it? No.
I wait until time ticks me out of existence.

I can hear the pulse in my ears, palpitating to the rhythm of my heartbeat. A breathy exhale spills onto my lips, eyelids managing to remain closed for only but a few moments until the flooding intellection comes rushing back.
I never stop thinking.

Along with insomnia, I was also diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety exactly a year later. When I turned twelve.
According to my brain, I was forced to seclude myself from friends and family; forming into an extreme introvert, afraid to even make a simple phone call.

Being up at such an ungodly hour begs for attention by the constant tick of loneliness.
You see?
The world functions at a painfully slow pace, causing my view on it to be in slow-motion.
Do you ever think that maybe everyone surrounding you doesn't exist, and they're all but a figment of one's imagination?
Therefore, we're all alone. Very alone. Nothing to reach out to or lean on but tediously discolouring holograms created in your mind.
Once they fade out, realization of your infinite desolation fills your mind with awful dread.
Your skilled ability to produce those complex dummies expires to the point where you no longer regard the eternal isolation that consumes your entire universe. ALONE.

It's now six o five AM, my notepad a few breadwidths away from my fingertips; the skin scantily brushing the coils of plastic spiralling through written on and blank pages.
I come up with more than ninety percent of my ideas at such hours of the night. The later the better; therefore there is no barrier or filter on your brain, and your mind runs free creating much more productive ideas.
I write poems. And songs. And my feelings.

The fabric of my socks rubbed together, a crisp grind of cotton on cotton; my knees bent a fraction, feet against the wall, lying on my back. Ebony hair hung in disarray, dark locks scattering from around the scalp.
I'd forgotten to brush it before going to bed.

Six fourteen AM....I count down the minutes till my alarm will ring.
I don't have school today, fortunately.
The whole twenty four hours of pure thoughts and notepads.