On a clear night

On a clear night you can see the effulgent skyline of the city from 40 kilometres away. Somewhere amidst that pile of shining glass and concrete is where she lies in bed, reading and thinking, wishing for sleep.

Closing her book, she clicks the lamp off before settling down under the covers to attempt the impossible. What if I had done things differently? What if I had chosen not to chase this dream, and instead chase another? Would I be happier now? Lying in the dark, eyes closed tightly, she asks herself these questions and more.

The sleeper: systems on standby, shut down for service, offline for maintenance. Peaceful, at rest, recharging. But this is not her. The sleeper that is her: a single thought running through the mind like a feedback loop, scrunched-up toes, muscles tight. Fitful, tossing, turning. Awake.

Her eyes won't stay closed, and instead repeatedly return to the digital clock beside her bed - until she covers it up. She gets out of bed every half-hour to wander around her darkened flat, staring out the windows, imagining a hundred other beds on the block each occupied by soundly sleeping people. She researches insomnia on the internet, hoping for cures, finding nothing she hasn't already tried. Eventually she finds herself rummaging around in the medicine cabinet, reading the sides of bottles and boxes, looking for something to knock her out. In bed again, this time trying to count sleeping sheep rather than wigged-out frantic ones, forever jumping the same goddamned fence.

On a clear night you can see the anxiety from 40 kilometres away. Somewhere amidst that pile of worry and botheration is where she lies in bed, ruminating and thinking, wishing for sleep.