I don’t know why but I’m just afraid to go to sleep tonight.
Not afraid because there’s a monster under my bed or something like that. But afraid that if I allow myself into the warm embrace of electric blanket, comforting darkness of the room, and loving arms of Brandon, I’d never ever get out of bed again. That I’d just stay there all weekend, hugging my Snoopy and never really get out.
I’m afraid to get totally comfortable because I’d love it so much that I wouldn’t want to come out and face the world. The stress. The homework. Another USC heart stopping football game. The feeling that I am the cause of all pain and suffering in the world. The feeling that I was born not to enrich life but to make everyone else’s life more difficult.
I’m afraid that I wouldn’t like the world so much once I get under the blankets and have a good night sleep.
Such pure happiness doesn’t seem last too long once that foot swings out from under the cover toward the floor.
No wonder why clinically depressed people don’t want to get out of bed. Who’d want to be out in the cruel world? Who’d want to go out to a place where everyone points their finger at you? Who’d want to go out into the world where you feel like nothing but a dust in someone’s eyes, so insignificant yet irritating?
Who’d want to go out into the world where people just tolerate you because they don’t want to be rude?
Maybe if I sit out here long enough I’d be too exhausted to think, my eyes too dry to see the screen, and perhaps I can go to sleep and don’t think too much. Perhaps I can wake up and feel like someone important. Perhaps I can feel like I matter in this big wheel of existence.
Perhaps daylight will bring me a better day. Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel better after a good night sleep.
Maybe. I can only dream.