i’m most content when it’s too early or it’s too late, when everybody is asleep and the world starts to quiet down. 3am. 6am. the hours of insomnia are surprisingly the ones i feel most peaceful. i love the beginning of wakefulness. it’s silent, blank. fresh. a mix between the dream world and the real world. a sort of hypnosis. but then i start to wake up, really wake up. and the real world hits, and the thoughts hit, and the emotions hit. and sometimes they’re nice, but other times they’re not. and when they’re not, sometimes they become so unbearable i just regress into a child and want to cry, but we all know grown ups don’t cry in public. and growns up don’t cry at work. and grown ups don’t cry in the middle of a joke. growns ups cover it with a few cups of coffee in the day and a glass of wine come evening. but i am not a grown up, i can’t even try. i am a little kid. i am a little kid that wants to hide under a mountain of blankets and maybe read poetry with a book light or call her best friend and talk about that time we were fifteen. and i want to read fairytales and have fairytales read to me. i want to sleep in and drink soup before the summer heat sets in. i want to take life slowly. is that too much to ask?

(june 11 2013)


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