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! Sleep has abandoned me! Whoa is me! I am stuck in this half life. It is neither day or night. It is a most useless period.


One wonders why they allow themselves to be ruled by useless hope of sleep. Dreamers are forever hanging their necks on hope. We need a reproval, a prod, to change our fate. Get up or suffer. The morning is nigh. The night passes by without finding where sleep was hiding. The lucky slip into it without injury, but the rest greet the sun with a scowl. The weary whacks the hopeful on the head to make them sleep. Who needs a pill when you have a hammer? 

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