I can't sleep.
This shouldn't come as a surprise. I know it's nice, this idea of rest and respite. Yet this is not my first time, my circadian rhythm being misaligned, it's not fine, this plight of mine.
I can't sleep.
What would you have me do? My thoughts are few - 'tis true - but they're the cause of my blues. My mind cannot divine this line between good, bad, maybe both are entwined?
I can't sleep.
It's the prevailing thought of yesteryear, the anguish and tears, the isolation and fear. Misguided or misconstrued, what was done to me was crude, and thus my heart was bruised.
I can't sleep.
Ten months I've spent, through confessions and rants, whether improvised or planned, I had hoped that I've moved; I've processed; I've accepted.
I CAN'T SLEEP.
Alas, nights like these, they make me doubt if I had put enough effort to let go.
Funny, why should there be any effort put in letting go?
I don't know.
Do you?
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