Sometimes I think I can’t. Sometimes I feel like I made it up; it’s all in my head. No one ever bothered to understand anyway. So why should I? They say it almost killed me once. But some say it made me crazy first. The thing about being crazy is you have no one you can believe anyway – especially yourself. Most particularly, right now when your mind is consciously split between two places – teetering precariously on the edge of a world where a sense of accomplishment fades away to blissful feelings or nightmares, and sometimes blissful nightmares you prefer to the heavy alternative of wide awake. It is a place. Anxiety driven and careless. Everything is the same and some days that same is comforting and other days being the same is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. Unchanged. Unchanging. Well, I will tell you what. This is one of those unchanging moments. One of those one in the same kind of nights where I fall somewhere between that edge where someone catches you and the one I always get snagged on. It’s a night I wish I could sleep forever. Please. Just once. But that’s just it. That’s just the problem. That’s where the joke is on me because I went to doctor after doctor and took test after test to cure that very need in me so I could be awake. Now I’m always awake. Always working. Always thinking. Always planning. Always something. And I’m sick of being always. And I’m sick of being the same. I wanted to be a writer.