He doesn’t want to go to sleep. He’s so tired and still he does not sleep. He doesn’t understand but he doesn’t want to sleep.
It hasn't been an entire day since he’s slept, but for someone who usually has a stable sleep schedule it hurts. His brain is scrambled and his entire body is screaming at him to go to sleep. But his brain starts screaming when he tries. It’s not words, he isn’t overthinking, but he feels the urgent need to not be asleep.
He doesn’t want tomorrow to come. He doesn’t want to wake up in his bed knowing that it’s the next day. He just wants to be awake just a little longer.
Just a little bit longer, only a few more minutes, just another book. Just long enough that he can’t remember how much time has passed. Or maybe he’ll stay awake the entire night, tomorrow never comes, it’s only today.
He needs time to stop, and time to go faster. Make it tomorrow already so that he can sleep. He can’t sleep now. Why? Why, why, why?
He doesn’t want to sleep. His reasoning for it is so incomprehensible, and he doesn't understand. Why is everything spinning, he just wants to sleep. He just wants to be awake for a little while longer. What does he want?
Why can’t he just be at peace. He’ll regret this in the morning he knows. The sleeplessness will come back to haunt him with fatigue and tiredness.
It’s going to make him wish he could be asleep just a little while longer. Just enough to not be tired. But he can’t. He won’t. Why is his mind this fucked up? Hasn’t he earned the right to sleep whenever he wants instead of having to jump through hoops?
He thought he would be better now. Would get to tell himself things that are nice instead of attacking himself. Would get to sleep. But he can’t. He can't he can't he can't.
Why can’t he?
He doesn’t understand. He just wants to sleep, and by now he’s begging, and he doesn’t know who he’s begging to. There’s no one around, it’s just him. He’s alone. So utterly alone.
It’s raining. It’s dark. Just highlighting how late it is, when the sun and the moon can’t tell him. The rain comes down harshly, like blades towards the ground. How is he only noticing this now? It’s so loud. No wonder he can’t sleep.
Why does he have to deal with this? He just wants to do what he wants without his brain telling him things. He’s fine, he’s fine. The things his mind is whispering at him are lies. Everything is fine.
He’s up before he knows it, lurching to his feet. He needs to leave, he is not safe. But he is, he is. He’s fine.
And it hurts so goddamned bad, that he’s not okay. That he still has to deal with the same bullshit that’s been plaguing him for years. Things were supposed to get better. And things are.
He has to remind himself that things are better. Not everything goes away, especially not things like this.
Things are perfect here. He doesn’t have to hide how tired he is, he doesn’t have to hide how not okay he is. Things are perfect. It’s peaceful and silent. And whenever he feels alone he can find someone.
Everyone would welcome with open arms if he showed up right now at their doorsteps.
He doesn’t know how he’ll manage to get down the ladders in his state but he’ll manage. He knows he’ll manage because he is in the process of doing it, and he’s not going to think of how many ways this could go wrong, and how many ways he could die.
When he hits the floor, he’s relieved. He didn’t die. Not that he would’ve, it’s only a handful of feet. But if he hit the ground just right he could’ve snapped his neck, which would have killed him.
He’s shaking his head now, he’s not thinking of that, he’s not thinking of anything. He’s walking out of the barn, with a completely clear mind. He doesn’t even know where he’s going.
His mind is a little too clear, because when he steps out of the barn, it’s to the pouring rain. He’s completely soaked and he’s so cold.
It’s so cold, and it weighs him down. He doesn't want to be weighed down, he just wants to be free. And he is, what is he if not free? He’s here isn't he? Free to leave his house in the middle of the night, free to walk into the pouring rain, no one to stop him. He’s free.
And if that causes him to cry, he’s free to pretend he’s not. To pretend that the tears falling down his face are just rain. That he can breathe just fine. His lungs are doing their job. He’s not one step from collapsing.
He’s not sobbing over the fact that this is perfect. He’s not sobbing over what he had to go through to get here. He’s not sobbing.
He doesn't know how he manages to get himself moving. He just wants to sit down and cry, and sleep. But he forces himself to move forwards. He doesn't want to be alone.
If he shows up on anyone's doorstep sobbing in the middle of the might in the middle of a downpour, nobody is going to turn him away. Everybody would welcome him with open arms.
It’s all so perfect.