Hammered
Hope is a bitter pill to swallow at 1:30 in the morning. I lie awake, wanting desperately to fall asleep. Sleep, however, that little devil, that dervish of tranquility, lies not in ambush. He lurks in shadows, mostly in my mind. I toss and turn, my eyes glaring at the spaces between this reality and the one my mind conjures in a dream. That is my hope. To dream. But, alas, I cannot fall asleep. Why does the sun set and the moon rise? If the daylight never ended, would my eyes ever close? I shall not know. Sleep eludes me. It is too foreign to even taunt me. I thought once we were friends, but that must have been a dream. Hope is a devil dressed in memory, the color of midnight. The wheels of my mind turn. Time ticks slower when it is watched with the eyes of a hopeful sleeper. The clock defies all reason. A second seems a minute and an hour an eternity. Nothing in my brain allows me to forget time. It becomes an obsession. Tick tick tick. Another minute has passed! Sl...