My mind never stops working. Part of the reason I can’t sleep at night. I can feel my heart pounding in my ears because all I can think about are the millions of things that will never actually happen to me. The less light there is, the worse it is. See, I’m not afraid of the dark; I’m afraid of what I see in the dark. I see more in the dark. The things I see are never actually there, but they scare me more than the things that actually are, even though they go away far more easily. All I need to do is raise my phone and illuminate the room, just the slightest, to anchor myself back in reality. Yet, on repeat, on some sick routine, every night I have to refocus the small amount of light I’m granted at least four times just to remind myself that I am in my room and not the forest, or the cemetery.

The imagination of a writer is a gift, but it carries a lot of baggage. Living in these fake worlds takes a toll. No wonder why so many writers turn to the bottle or other vices. Those deeds are an interesting way to ground oneself. What is more human than messing up? That is how we exist. Trial and error/adaptation.

It is bed time now. I need to sleep. But I am focused on the things that are not here.


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