2 November 2011

 There is something fascinating about your own scribblings from the past.

I cannot sleep. My  mind gives me no chance to sleep. I have been watching the ceiling for more than an hour now. The darkness behind the bathroom door which is not closed. The door of the closet isn’t closed either. I don’t like open door when I try to sleep.

                Have been watching the dim light shining through the curtains. The old, vague, tartan curtains. Almost as ugly as the dusty lamp on the dark ceiling. I have been watching this room more than once. The nights when I wasn’t able to sleep as well. These nights are different than the nights back home. It is not the panic, the suffocating realization of things I don’t want to think about but can’t control. These are not the nights when my heart starts pounding, my muscles freeze when I try so hard to avoid letting my mind take control. Think. Of. Something. Different. Please. Stop.

                No. This is different. I used to fall asleep after gaining control again, when the panic faded away. But now there is no point in trying. I gave up. ‘Going to have a glass of water.’ There’s no point in lying actually. He will understand. Maybe it is just lying to myself. Refusing to admit I am not able to control my mind, again. Yes, it is probably like that. But that’s all right. He would understand the lie as well. I guess.

                I’m snuggling in the big leather chair under a blanket. Waiting for my body to get cold, my eyes to get sore and my mind to get tired. Watching around the living room and the kitchen. My coffee cup with some cold coffee in it. I didn’t finish it. Loose paper where he scribbled some things on. I can’t read them from here. I’m not going to try to read it either. It is none of my business. Actually, he is none of my business. Should be none of my business at least.