Edge of Sleep

I don't know what goes on with these sleepless nights. Last night it was to bed at eight and waking up at midnight to a mind full of nothing and everything, not being able to fall into a sound sleep until just before four a.m., when it was almost time to rise. I have ideas of why, but not substantial or definitive and certainly not with any kind of resolution or closure to what is fleetingly passing through the chaos I call my mind. Fantasy or reality, or even both of them simultaneously, align my thinking with the possibilities of life that I imagine, but can only imagine. Damn this imagination, that which is such a joy and pleasure becoming a curse for me that burdens my thoughts and reduces my sense of self, rendering me transparent, a frail ghostly image of who I should or could be without the depths of soul that quench the thirst of my spirit.

The edge of sleep is actually the edge of my bed, empty of me but nonetheless harboring years of memory and history, dreams elusive always and thoughts confused by fatigue, inebriation, excitement, anger or combinations of all of those. I don't hate my bed, but I often resent it.