A shout out to the people slumming it with me.
Well, my Facebook account got suspended due to not using my real name. And it won’t accept my real name. It’s the final nail in the coffin, half-driven in; I might sort it out eventually, but I’m not in any damn rush.
I realized yesterday that I don’t remember the last time I’ve had a full week of going to bed at a certain time, getting seven-or-eight hours of sweet oblivious dreamy relaxing sleep, and then waking up at a certain time. My mind doesn’t tend to prioritize sleep above many other things, but these things are so hard to do when my sleeping patterns spin out of control and I find myself REM-less and gormless due to its lack. This is where I am right now, clumsy and slow of thought, because last night I spent a sweaty, tossy-turny four hours praying to whatever overlord is in charge of this kind of thing–Orpheus, I guess–to let me get but a little rest before I had to start today; I have so much that needs doing when my neuro-chemicals are functioning properly, and they’re just not when I’m trapped in these insomniatic webs. It’s not a mania; manias are fun times compared to this, where my neuro-chemicals frolic spastically during the absence of sleep, thumbing their noses at traditional routines and creating there own world of fun. Oh, sure, there’s risk-taking–everything from bravado to libido decides to take the wheel for a while, but if you’re lucky you enjoy yourself and come out unscathed and unembarrassed…though almost always fiscally poorer. This, though, is a paralyzing exhaustion. Exhausted during the day, I force myself to stay awake–which takes all and every effort–and exhausted during the night, I try to keep the intrusive thoughts of the perfectly good day I’ve wasted doing nothing but staying awake so that I can SLEEP now, the irony being that the guilt over lack of daytime accomplishments is now keeping me awake. I need a hardware off-switch; this software malarkey just doesn’t work for me.
Because it moves on
and lament for something lost is whining.
I don’t want to be that beggar-pleader;
I’ll stick to being open to the comeround when it happens
Pathetic, yes, I’ve never not been thought of as such.
I have trouble moving on.
And I even feel bad for the people trying to move me on
With their pointed hurts, ignoring of what I know is inside them, the suppression of good feelings in favour of current happinesses.
A strong man could take it better than I, the hints not biting so hard, maybe even angry-making, world-ending.
But I understand, and that is my weakness; always I get the point of view of the other
Sometimes too late, but I accept it
And in time forgive it.
Oh to be strong in conviction.