awake

I am tired enough to now call it a night, and go to sleep, especially for it is past two in the morning. But I sit here so inert, doing everything else except get ready for bed, despite my eyes closing, and my goodnights. It is as if I am not really here, doing as I ought to, such as sleep. I do this often, lapsing into my alternate consciousness that does something else altogether. Sometimes I come back, one hour later, sometimes, two years.


So I lapse between my extremes, like a messenger through a portal into different worlds, still here, yet not. I am hard to understand because I am extremes. I am anti-social, but I like to talk to people. I hate people, but I love them enough to want to do as much as I am impassioned to for them. I am outgoing, but I like silence; music and television are extra and not to me necessities of life. I am logic, but I am irrational. I make acquaintances easily, but I have few friends whom I truly love. I am all of these things.


I am not here now because I feel somewhat bothered. Because I hardly like people easily: I see through people too quickly - every lie, each layer of pride, character flaws, their belief system - each becomes apparent to me sooner than they get to know me, or even themselves. (It is almost like how people see things in the spirit realm, whilst others bask in preferred ignorance.) And because I am still not in the mood to explain things about me, and because I am also part hermit. So when a friend I love little, talks to me about me, I oblige, but I am bothered. Hence, I am here inert now in its after-effects. Hardly a proper reason for my catatonia, but still. I am irrational.


Maybe I just love the silence. The sound of the cold. The whirr in my ears, for there is naught to make an audible sound. Hence I stay awake to enjoy this quiet, instead of sleeping to it. In this silent state I hear everything: my God, my heart, every thought that passes through me. It seems the provocation to staying awake does me some good.