It is 1.03A.M. as I type this. The night is hot and still outside, and I am still dressed in the polo tee, jeans, and socks that I had went out earlier in. There is a slightly itchy heaviness under my eyes and a feeling like there’s something pushing against the inside of my eyeballs. I imagine if I looked at them, they might appear bloodshot.
That’s what you get when you play 2 hours of Arkham Origins at night.
Nights like these, I lie asleep wishing, praying, and listening for rain that usually doesn’t come. Not that it stops nature from playing a particularly cruel prank on my senses by sending an unusually strong gust of wind that rustles the leaves on the tree outside my window (this doesn’t happen anymore, on account of the tree outside my window being cut down about a month ago), or by sending the occasional faint distant rumble of thunder – just enough that I might hear it, but I could still assign it to my overactive imagination
An overactive imagination. That’s sort of like a prerequisite for anyone who’d like to pursue a career in the arts, isn’t it? When I was smaller, I used to imagine until I fell asleep. I’d imagine battles between samurais and ninjas, between robots and martial artists, between legends and gods. I’d be, for once in my life, the fight choreographer on set – dreaming up fight scenes that would put the entertainment industry to shame, and the CGI accounts permanently in the red, if they were ever made.
(at this point of writing, I have reset my modem and router once, and had disabled and re-enabled the network connection on this laptop. If the problem of the missing wireless signal persists, this post may appear a little later than scheduled)
I used to count sheep, I think, a long time ago. Even before the time when I was smaller. It was because I’d seen it on TV, and thought it was like the panacea for sleeplessness (nevermind that characters on TV, when they are shown to be counting sheep, typically don’t manage to get any sleep at all). It has never worked for me.
Then there are the nights that my imagination would be the one keeping me awake. Maybe I’ve been writing a particularly exciting scene. Maybe something particularly exciting is about to happen in the morning. Either way, I cannot wait to get sleep over with so that I can get back to the fun stuff that has been scheduled to come after sleep.
Those nights, I try to lie really still in a comfortable position (lying on my left side with one hand stuck under the pillow, the other hand pulling the blanket over my shoulders, both my feet snug against the far end of the blanket, my cheek pressed against the pillow, where my hand is stuck underneath, giving it elevation), clear out my mind, and breathe slowly. Maybe if I pretend to be asleep, my mind will come along for the ride.
This works sometimes. But not all the time.
I know when I’m falling asleep. It’s when the bridges between a logical flow of thoughts melt away, leaving multidimensional wormholes where they begin and end, and it’s like someone messed up the writing to the wormholes. One thought jumps to the next, and I hear voices in my head making nonsensical remarks.
And I just go, Good, I’m finally falling asleep.
The best type of sleep, perhaps like the best type of love, is the type where you don’t even need to try – you just fall straight into it. You just climb into bed, switch off the lights, lay your head down onto your pillow (you can do these 3 things in whichever order you prefer), and before you even know it, you’re already floating off into dreamland.
That’s the type of sleep I’m hoping to fall into later. Tomorrow will be a long day.
(I say “tomorrow”, but what I really mean is “when I wake up and see the sun shining”)
I hope sleep comes for me swiftly.
(I’m done writing. The time is 1.22A.M., and I have reset the router and modem for the second time to no effect. I shall retreat now, and wait for a more opportune time to upload this post onto the internet)