I stare at the clock, and the numbers mock me. 2:56am. They snicker at the thought of me being so far away from slumbering sweetly. I breathe in and out quickly. Anxiety at 3am has a strange effect on me. I lay here trying to pinpoint its origin, but I only become more overwhelmed with worries and draw farther away from sleep.
Such has been my routine for the past three nights. The only difference tonight is that I have no one to worry about bothering with my alertness at such an odd hour. My roommate is gone for the night.
I have been laying here reading the journals of Sylvia Plath. She has been my constant companion on sleepless nights. She comforts me by telling me true reality. I find myself time and time again, logging onto Youtube to listen to her read her poems. I recall her voice being powerful. She recites them with such conviction. I fantasize about what it might be like if she were still alive and I got the chance to meet her. I wonder if I would still be as enthralled by her without her claim to suicide. I believe I would be. Reading through her journals- the things that were so very private to her- reveal such intimate detail about who she was. I love her, I think. She is a good friend.
Anyhow... I fear that I shouldn't sleep a wink tonight. I do enjoy being awake, while the rest of the world is asleep, but my body longs for the rest it requires to function. Maybe just a little shut eye... No? As you wish...
Wait up, Sylvia... I'm coming!
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