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I haven't been able to sleep for so long now.
The last time I slept...I don't...I can't remember. So long ago. So tired...
Why can't I sleep? Why does it escape me? Every time my eyelids fall, something jerks them back to attention.
My limbs. They feel so heavy...made of wood...lead. Fingers numb. Brain gently being covered in a thick mould. Smothering thought.
I...I want to...I need to sleep. How can I sleep? I need to find someone. Find something. Anything. I just...something that can let me sleep. Sleep for an eternity.
Perfume, like unperfected cinnamon. Like smouldering passions, slowly burning.
If I close my eyes, I can see it. A musky, dulled red, twirling in time with the dust, creating a trail straight to you.
I would follow it, willingly. Drink in the smell, each step taking me closer to its source.
That smell. It makes me shiver. Sweat. It jumbles up the words in my head, slows down my muscles, tenses up my tendons.
I would follow that smell to the ends of the world. To the very pit of hell itself. I would happily be damned for you.
'My God. You look awful!'
'And a good morning to you too.'
'What happened to you?'
'I haven't been able to sleep.'
'For how long?'
'I...I don't even know any more. Three weeks? A month? Something like that...I think.'
'Why can't you sleep? Are you worried about anything?'
'I have no idea. I just woke up one morning, and stayed in that state from there on in. I've tried sleeping tablets. Meditation. Running until my muscles burn. Nothing. I just...can't sleep.'
'I'm really sorry.'
'It hurts...so much. Is sleep too much to as for? Is it?'
I just want to stay up with you all night long and listen to you talk just watch your lips move and smile and match your eyes to mine and then just slowly reach out my hand and place it on top of yours feeling the warmth of your skin against mine as I bury my fingers into yours whilst my heart beats faster.
I'm so scared. So scared that you'll just walk away and never come back. I want to tell you.
Just...don't leave me. Please. Just stay here, talking late into the night. Just keep talking. Please.
The night had risen, and I was still unable to find sleep. With a small moan of frustration, I wandered out of my room and fell into the darkness of the town.
Everything was so quiet. The dark seemed to dampen noise. My footsteps appeared out of place, too overtly loud.
Finding a bench, I sat on it to still my feet and slowly lifted my head up to stare at the sky. There were few stars out. Those that weren't covered by clouds had been swallowed up in light pollution.
With a sigh, I kept sitting there, sleep unobtainable.
I feel sick to my bones. They ache. So brittle, like they would shave away if I brushed up against a door.
My chest is on fire. Skin blackened and peeling, flaking away in an ecstasy of agony.
Breathing gets harder as the airways contract, sweat springs out on my palms, laces my forehead and tiptoes down my back as I start to shiver, violently, arms clasping my knees to my body, teeth clenched, dulled, weighted moans slipping past my lips and spewing onto the floor.
I am so sick. Love sick. Sick of love. So very sick.
Through a drunken haze, she stared at the body. Stared at him staring up at the sky. With a light giggle, like dandelion seeds in the wind, she stumbled over and sat down next to him.
She could sense him tensing up and shuffling slightly away from her. His eyes fell from the sky and landed on the floor.
'You look sad.' She said, putting an over-emphasis on every word.
He gave her a weak grin.
'I am sad.' He said, shaking his head as if to say that sad was not such a bad thing.
I was so happy. So happy.
And then you came along, being all beautiful. Being all lovely and wonderful and interesting. You had to come along, didn't you? You had to make me hopelessly infatuated with you.
And now I'm so scared of telling you, or even just hinting, how I feel. I couldn't stand your rejection. Just thinking about it makes my chest tighten up.
I need to say something, otherwise I'll burst.
I was so happy. So mundanely happy. Then you came, with the promise of an intense joy.
If heaven does exist, it lies in your lips.
She reached up and ruffled his hair.
'You need a drink. You're too sober, that's the problem.'
He gave a small laugh, the sort of laugh you give when you're not aware what your proper response should be to a particular statement.
'I don't think that would help, to be honest.'
'You're boring. I'm going now.'
She tried to stand up, and managed to stay erect for a few seconds before flumping back on the bench.
'I'm going in a second.' She murmured.
He laughed properly this time. Musically, without any hint of mocking.
'You are too drunk.'
When I yawn, I like to pretend that I'm a lion in the savannah, lazing under a crackled tree to try and escape the worst of the heat. When I yawn, I show my dulled teeth and slightly shake my head to displace my mane. When I finish, I glance slowly around to see whether this display has impressed anybody, then settle back down to drink the sun.
I tend to leave my door open most nights now. Try to use it as a honey trap, hoping to entice you in, even if it's just for a few minutes.
'There's no such thing as too drunk.' She pouted. 'Come on. You must know what it's like.'
'Actually, I don't. I tend not to drink alcohol.'
She stared at him.
He shrugged. 'I don't know. I guess...I don't feel the need to get drunk.'
'Getting drunk isn't a need. It's just something fun to do.'
'I'm happy enough just drinking in each day.'
'What does that even mean?'
He shrugged again. 'I...I used to know. I'm sorry. I'm just so tired.'
'Then go to bed.'
'I can't sleep.'
'...My God you're strange.'
I saw Vince Cable. I like Vince Cable. I would not object to him being my Granddad.
There's an opportunity to go and be taught improvisation by a genuine New Orleans jazz band. This is literally a dream appearing in reality. There's a chance they may not accept me, but at least I applied for it. It seems to be more dixieland style music. I like dixieland. It makes me think of the 1920's and flapper girls and salmon pink suits and giant parties and The Great Gatsby. Dixieland just feels so light and paper thin and springily energetic.
He watched the girl clamber up, then totter unsteadily back to her friends. Half way to them, she turned around and gave him a hesitant wave. Then she blinked, turned, and fell back in to them, laughing, mouth gaping, eyes widening, face reddening.
Closing his eyes, he tried to bring to mind how she had smelt. Soft and warm, like an inviting hug. It made his chest quiver.
Stretching his arms up high, he opened his eyes and determined to follow her. Sleep was as elusive as ever, but, if he was quick enough, she might not be.
Someone got me a rose for Valentines day.
I have no idea who it was. Well, I had a couple of ideas as to who it could be, but it turns out all of those were wrong.
So I now have no idea who could have given it to me. It was just left in my pigeon hole, and I found it on the way to lectures. Being surprised at finding it, I picked it up without thinking, and was mocked by the others on my course.
Thank you for getting me a rose, whoever you are.
She giggled excitedly, legs stepping in time to a beat that seemed to pulse up through the floor. Like she was dancing on a heart.
Everything was slightly fuzzy, but fuzzy was good. Fuzzy was nice. It meant all her thoughts lacked their usual cutting quality. No bleeding tonight.
Turning to whoever was standing next to her, she laughed at the sheer joy of no longer having to think. She threw her arms around them, pulling them closer. Tonight was a night for instinct. No thought. No feelings. Just pure instinct.
The fuzziness turned heavier, more oppressing. Let it come.
why cant it just be like a story and i manage to find the right words to say and then you fall giggling into my arms then look up at me with wide eyes and tell me that yes this is what you have always wanted and then i carry you in my arms and kiss you and your fingers curl around my hair and i murmur the sweetest words into your ear and you laugh softly and we sit up through the night whispering our love to each other and finally my god finally we live happily ever after
His chest was burning up. He could hear here laughter everywhere. Her voice. His heart leaped and panted every time he thought he heard her.
The feeling was getting desperate. He needed to find her, to see her, to hear her voice. Hands trembling, he ran from place to place, eyes roaming wildly to try and glimpse her face.
His mind kept whispering how pathetic he was. He knew how pathetic he was. Knowing didn't stop him.
His chest was on fire. Sweat beaded his face. Teeth clenched, he kept searching, kept straining to her her true voice.
I really, really want to be a balloon.
Just a balloon that a little child let go of. Then I could float away, never worrying about what I have to do or where I have to go. I'd bob along without ever making a choice.
I would see the world from an entirely new perspective. Float across oceans and hills and pretty places full of pretty people. And then, one day, I would encounter a sharp branch and I would pop. And that would be all there was to it.
You are the sharp branch. I am the balloon.
And suddenly she was in the arms of someone who was not a stranger. Well...slightly less of a stranger than a true stranger was. But certainly stranger than the average stranger.
'Still not been able to sleep?' She shouted above the noise.
He shook his head slowly, eyes wide.
'Well, than dance with me!'
Hesitantly, he started to move his hips in a jerking motion. She giggled.
'You're not drunk enough to dance.'
He gave a weak grin and shrugged his shoulders. Trying to move his hips more fluidly, he shuffled closer towards her, hands trembling very slightly.
My rose is dead. The red petals have turned a brittle black, curled up into a death pose. A gentle touch, and they fall away.
It's still in my room. I just can't quite bring myself to throw it away. It was a very sweet thing that someone gave me, and I'm reluctant for that to just be callously thrown in a bin to decompose.
I suppose it's rather pathetic, in its own way. More than rather pathetic.
If I could, I would keep it pristine forever. For now, I'll just keep it until it is dust.
*My God I'm actually dancing with her. I'm...dancing with her! And she's dancing with me! What do I...what am I meant to do? Her smell...I can smell it even now, even through the sweat and the alcohol. I'm so nervous. So scared. But she hasn't run away yet. She hasn't pushed me away yet. She seems to want to dance with me. That can't be right. God I'm pathetic. She might want to dance with me. But...I...Screw it. She's dancing with me, and I'm dancing with her and for now, that's all that really matters.*
I fall in love too easily.
People are so easy to love. Everybody is so wonderful and interesting. They have these lovely stories to tell.
It was so easy to fall for you. And then for you. And finally for you. And every time I do, I'm such a coward that I can never tell any of you.
My mother once told me that I was destined to have my heart broken continually.
I wish I swore. I wish I drank. I wish I loved less.
None of that is true.
I wish you were here with me.
The music droned on, as did the dancing, until the faint early hours of the morning made themselves known. Gasping into the morning the air, the two fumbled their way through the streets, leaning on each other for support.
The light was unsure of itself, shuffling into the day rather than bursting on the scene. The cold had no such inhibitions.
Arm in arm, they managed to find their way back to the bench where they had first met. With a giggle, both fell back on to it, backs slapping against the hard wood. They continued giggling a while longer.
I found a duck pond. It had ducks in it. And there was a swan.
Before coming here, I had always thought that I would love to live in a city. So many things to do and interesting things to see. But lately, I've been feeling run-down, like a phone that you refuse to charge.
And then I found the duck pond and, if I looked at the scene at a certain angle, I could pretend that there were no buildings around me at all. It was wonderful.
I really miss the large fields back home. Really miss them.
The inevitable happened. When the giggling had been drowned out by silence, they turned to each other, eyes locking. With a faint determination, both leaned in closer until, finally, they kissed.
It was hesitant and awkward and too full of expectation to be any good. Just like real love.
With a sigh, she pulled away to break the kiss. Well, she tried to pull away. He was slumped against her chest, eyes closed, breathing heavily and rhythmically.
Gently, she lowered his head onto her lap and absent-mindedly stroked his hair.
The clod wrapped itself around them, fully embracing.
'Good afternoon swan.'
'And a good afternoon to you too. Did you enjoy coming to visit me?'
'Very much so. It reminded me of how much I love things that aren't made of bricks and concrete.'
'So will you be coming back again?'
'I certainly hope so. Coming here...it makes me feel refreshed. Like I could just lie down on the grass all day and listen to the birds and the wind and all those little troubles that come from living would just melt away into the ground and disappear forever.'
'...So you're saying you like it here?'
'Good morning sleepyhead.'
Groggily, he pulled himself up and rubbed his eyes.
'Morning...?' He muttered. 'Morning. But...I...' His eyes shot open. 'I was asleep.'
'Yes you were.' She grinned.
'But...I can't sleep!'
'Well, it looks like you can, now. You were snoring and everything.'
'I don't snore...' He murmured.
'Do you fancy getting some breakfast?'
'Sure. Breakfast sounds...good.'
So they both struggled up and made their way to a cafe. They breakfasted and talked and laughed, then went for a walk along in the cold air to dispel the last remnants of a sleep-filled head.
I miss my friends who used to write on here. It was so nice, looking for their words, seeing what they were thinking.
I wonder if Anna still reads these things?
I wonder if my teacher still reads these things? I miss her lessons, and the way she kept telling me that I was going to be an author.
I feel melancholy for the past. A sweet melancholy, like a final hug from a friend who's leaving.
Do you ever wonder how things could have turned out?
I wonder how things will turn out?
To the future!
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