The Night When I Was A Living Dead

One of the things I'd learned from college that actually won over forgetfulness was that if you find it annoyingly hard to sleep at night, someone must be thinking of you. No, I didn't get this from a prof or from a reserved book at the Main Lib, but from a freshman blockmate Cecille. She used to experience it too or so she recounted, and end up calling up the person whom she thought was toying with her memory, and told them to knock it off.

True or not, I wondered, above the usual brewing of a nasty panic attack, who could be thinking of me at that unholy hour of 2 am; and in my mind I saw a gaping emptiness of a corridor. I almost made a crater on our bed from tossing and kicking, and trying to burry my legs to the soft, cold silken blankets which on usual nights lulls me to snoring oblivion, but not tonight.

Everyone on my bed was asleep, and even outside nothing could be heard. The worst part of sleepless nights is that it lets you dose off a little and then jolt you with an inexplicable terror, making you ten cups of caffeine awake again. Some people cry over insomnia, some do the weirdest stuff like taking a crap or jerking off, but for me there's only one thing left to be done. After trying to ignore the fact that one day I will have to do so, tonight maybe the day of surrender. From my little pouch bag I rummaged over coins, keys and my MP3 player for a little pill box. My emergency pill box. My miniature panic room-sanctuary. And there I succumbed to the chemical process.

It's not E for crying out loud, but rallying to be psychotic drugs-free is as important to me as having quit smoking just by simply wanting to. Taking the pill is just taking the pill, it's the higher statement which Im sore about. That I've given over to fear again, and so on and so forth.
In the morning I naturally felt worse; the consolation however was that I'm actually here in the office writing this, in spite of the terror and the floating feeling. I have to google hydroxyzine to find out how long the side effects wear off. Don't mind me.

At The Urinal

A love that is a little higher than loving one self would be loving the world.

Nothing is more easy. The world prizes love for the immortal, for the absolute, for the always; base, gross emotions are reserved for animals. But with the coming of certain thoughts of our own mortality, of our not being here forever of our not belonging here, I don't know if it was cheap sentimentality or a legitimate call from the source of all wisdom, that I felt a certain sorrow for all the insignificant things in this world.

It was sudden, while I was at the public urinal, recovering from my regular dose of anxiety attack: this pain, that this disease has so ruined my life, this will not be forever; I am going to miss this. And I felt a tingle run through my arms, as I hear senseless noises from outside, and see things without weight. The brutality of eternal eyes opening up shuts off my mundane senses, and ended the warmth streaming from my body.