Can’t Sleep

It's these strange hours of the night that my writing inspiration peaks…doubt that says anything about me as a person, guess it's the only time of the day I'm truly by myself, surrounded by the peaceful sounds of the night. Except for the constant rattling in my head, everything else here is still. It would be nice if my brain borrowed a leaf.



I'm a fairly negative person, unlike some people; it takes considerable effort to maintain hope and faith. I've just read possibly the most depressing romance novel I've come across in my life, should have just put it down when I stumbled upon the first glimpses of depressing love. The dimming romantic facet I somehow still possess led me to turn each page with the hope of true love prevailing. Why do I even bother? Now here I am, all sentimental and moody. I feel spent, like I just watched my best years fly by on a lost notion. No more romance, hardcore crime, justice and thriller novels from now on! No way I'm quitting the novels, apart from my increasingly fervent daydreams, they're my only escape from this cruel world to a more world where all the bad things don't happen to me for a change and I have the luxury of pitying someone not directly affiliated to me. It's a refreshing change.



Mostly my life is boring, or it sucks with little to none sober happy moments, but as I sit on my bed, painting my nails an uncharacteristically girly, glittery colour, I wonder if I would prefer this to the blissfully oblivious lives so many people I know lead. Would I rather not know and be happy? Rather paint the glaring facts with pastel colours of oblivion or gullibility or know and live disheartened with little faith of anything anymore?

Paused to think about it while I applied the top coat and blew at my fingers and I still can't figure it out. Does the truth always set you free? Does the truth always come out? Could shutting your eyes to the truth be a happier way to live? Don't know; maybe. I'm beginning to think not knowing is less miserable. Every truth I know that was intended to stay secret tortures me to no end. Telling someone always relieves me of the burden and transfers it to the unsuspecting person.



My cousin is sleep talking in a really angry voice...

The past few nights without electricity were extremely annoying but they taught me a few things about myself; my imagination is a survival mechanism. I learnt how to talk myself to sleep, well that took a couple of hours but eventually worked, I talked about stuff I would rant about, sucky school, my nothing-is-happening life, crappy men, the bitches…the usual moppy things that ran through my mind most of the time…then I discovered a better way to lull myself to sleep. Fairy tales! My very own, edited versions of all the fairy tales I know. They all end with death or broken necks, spinal injuries, hemorrhages, bleeding brains…the usual.



Hansel and Gretel got beat to death by their evil step mum. 


Jack fell down from the beanstalk, got a spinal injury that left him paralyzed from waist downwards and spent the rest of his days on a wheelchair made of the pieces of the beanstalk that came tumbling down with him. 


Thumbelina got squashed to a small pulp, 


Cinderella found the man of her dreams at the ball, but at the last minute, her foot got swollen from the beating her ugly stepsisters gave her and he wasn't convinced it was her, turns out she was a size six like one of her stepsisters; he had no choice but to marry her and she lived happily ever after. Can't speak for the poor prince. 


The prince supposed to arouse sleeping beauty from her enchanted sleep got destructed by a pretty, horny elf and never did make it on time… you get my drift. I was out like a light in an hour.