The Insomniac / by Anne-Marie Robinson

The black is so thick; it makes it hard for me to breathe. My hand rests against my night gown, ensuring that my chest still rises and falls. I feel almost as if I’m floating slightly above my bed.

I’ve left the window open. The slight breeze reminds me I’m alive, making me shiver, making me acknowledge I am more than just a speck in this huge world.

The bold, green digital numbers pierce the darkness. My eyes aren’t open, but it’s comforting to know they are there.

Nights are always hard for me, but tonight seems intent upon making sure I don’t fall asleep. I think my uneasiness comes partly from the clouds covering the moon and the stars. They watch over me, or so I like to think.

The world is turning, I remind myself. Things are happening. The light is shining somewhere in China. But sometimes it’s just hard to remember that. But I force myself to. Otherwise I could never survive these long, endless nights. And sometimes, if I think really hard, I can let the night swallow me up into its dark embrace.



Anne-Marie Robinson has nothing else to say.