Insomniac Musings

Replaying conversations and wishing I could change my words is easier when they are texts
And the self-inflicted wounds of doubt are deeper with every comparison to the imagined reactions of the recipient of my carefully crafted missives designed to mask my fear

So, insomnia becomes the friend I love to hate in a codependent relationship with anxiety that perpetuates the lies about myself that I thought washed away until insomnia points out the stains and the frayed edges – whispered reminders of past hurt

I look for peace while the minutes drag on for weeks tonight and my overly critical imagination paints a Jackson Pollock in Picasso’s blue period picture of my reckless, cavalier hope that poisons and fuels my angst

When sleep finally takes me, will I get lost in a dark and winding house of many rooms with hidden passages or will the sun warm my face while I am swallowed by the sea?

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