Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

It’s times like these I wish my dad never got me that stupid clock. The times I lay, by myself, all alone, in the dark, while the rest of my family, scratch that, the world drifts off and dreams.

Not all of us can be so lucky.

Insomnia. Eight letters. Four syllables. But countless sleepless nights that I’m left to contemplate my life and the world around me.

But it’s my secret. You won’t tell, will you? People will judge me for it, I know. “Sleeping pills and move on, sweetheart,” they’ll say. But I don’t want it to be like that. I want a soul. Thoughts. Feelings. Beliefs. Love. Dreams.

More than anything I want to dream. Imagine myself drinking tea with the Mad Hatter or swimming with Shamu. Or flying. Those were always my favorites. From what I can remember.

It’s these kinds of things we insomniacs think of when it’s dark and cold and you’re too busy with your REM and lucid dreams to think about us.

The fourth consecutive hour of my idleness draws close before I decide to get up and use some of the time I waste every night stressing.

I turn soft music on – mostly violins and soft jazz – and dim my light up a little.

I wonder what the start gossip about me. That girl with the bedroom light on in all hours of the morning.

I grab my clipboard, my favorite pen and attempt to use my bottled up activity to attempt to make something worthwhile.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The sound of my clock serenades me when the CD ends and I finally finish my story.

Slowly, at last, my body, satisfied with its doings of the day, allows me to drift off into a dreamless slumber before I must awaken once again.