Insomnia of a Writer

Insomnia of a Writer

1
I first began writing when I was about eighteen years old. At twenty-one years old I published my first short story titled Junk Mail it was very armature basically it was about the frustrations of writing with a gruesome ending. After I published three or four more short stories it became very difficult to discover idea buried deep down in my brain and not only did a massive writers block develop but I could barley get sleep and I found myself just staring blankly into the screen of the computer. I would maybe write a sentence a night which was very unlike me as a writer as the nights went on the insomnia became greater I remember one night just scratching my leg drawing blood under my nails with the blankest of eyes trying desperately to search my memory for the slightest of plot to continue my work yet nothing came. Soon after my sleepless nights started to take control of my days.

I would just walk around like a zombie talking to myself, talking gibberish, complete nonsense. I tried a writer’s block technique I jumped on a bus to nowhere just searching the landscape for moment of clarity something to kick back and bring me back to sanity but that only put me deeper into the rabbit hole.

2
After weeks of no sleep the bags under my eyes became so dark I started wearing sunglasses at all times but nothing could hide my sunken in cheeks. I would stare into the mirror thinking to myself I looked like a skeleton dressed up in skin. I felt as if my brain just packed up its bags and left leaving my corpse to walk aimlessly. I jumped into my car and just drove all through the night scanning the people digging deep for the story I so long for. The moonlight reflected of my sunglasses and the dark night amplified my sunken in cheeks and if you looked closely you could see my collarbones protruding out from under my shirt giving me a very demonic appearance. I stopped in a back alley and got out of the car don’t ask me why nothing I did at this time made any sense and lit up a smoke. When you don’t sleep life seems different almost carefree you brain seems to float above your head and your eyes feel way in the clouds and until I find what I am looking for I think they might stay there.

3
Still sleep never came and my bones felt weak it has been months since I last slept at least that’s what it feels like. I walk around my house limping like a old man would feeling my face where all the deep pockets are where there should be meat I am melting away being sucked inside myself. From what I am told no sleep can make you a little crazy I would never have believed this until now. My mouth is being used less and now voices fill my head with constant talking repetitive words and old memories nothing that is of any use for clearing me from this situation.

I roam the streets and start frequenting local 24hour departments making use of my long days and nights. People look at me and quickly look the other way trying not to be rude but I can’t blame them I look like I just crawled out of a grave all I need is a little dirt on my knees. As the months go on I become less alive and more undead and the crazy sinks its claws deeper in my thoughts.

4
Soon I was no longer myself I became a walking ghost I noticed no one and cared for nothing I forgot all about the book I was writing. I began to cut myself every time I saw the first signs of sunlight just to make sure I was still alive and so far so good all is not lost. I cut myself too deep one morning I bleed a lot which surprised I looked like a dried up old prune I had no idea I had that much juice in me. I went to emergency with the deep scratches in my legs and the cuts on my arms they thought it was best I not to be released into the general public. I traded in my skinny jeans and polo for a nice crossed arm one piece. Sitting alone in my white room made of pillows my eyes and brain came back to me and the ending to my book was finally released to me. The worst part is not being locked in this cell for the insane its having such an amazing story yet no free hand to scribble it down.