The Diary of a Miserable Insomniac

It's become challenging even more so, to see the difference of the floor, the walls and the ceiling, to know where the floor ends and the walls begin. It's become just a jumbled mess of chipping dark paint and it seems to only make me all the more tired.

It's one of those many restless nights gracing its slow, painful way through my much dreaded life.

Perhaps I don't deserve the warmth of sweet oblivion, the open arms of restfulness. I suppose I deserve nothing more than to live my life, every day without the reward of sleep.

I can only wish and pray that is not so.