insomnia zombie
I woke with a start. Momentarily dazed and confused as I propped myself up on one elbow, legs splayed behind me and to the side, I attempted to keep a grasp on the dreamscape that was already leaving my conscious mind with a quickness. Lead-weighted eyelids opened and shut in an attempt to focus on the light streaming in from the window. Whether it’s the moonlight or glow from a city covered in white through the night, I can’t tell. I peer out to a view of the street where a single car sits quietly in a sea of icy sheen.
Without the kick from the furnace and the rush of warm air pumping through the vents, it’s quiet. I move slowly, deliberately; not wanting to disturb the hush that’s settled over my apartment both inside and out. My mind strains to recall parts of my dream. Frustration begins to build because I know my subconscious is trying to process or tell me something. Minutes pass while I slip in and out of zombie stasis, moving and thinking only when my body tells me I’m uncomfortable. A Fedex flight roars above in the night sky and I instinctively know it’s close to 2 a.m.
I move to the living room because staring at the ceiling and walls isn’t helpful. Maybe it’s too quiet. I flip on the television. Even Conan can’t save me now. Surely George Lopez will put me to sleep. Channel surfing gives way to another bout of frustration. I hum along with Bruce Springsteen’s “57 Channels and Nothin’s On” under my breath. The clock. It’s approaching 3 a.m. and I can’t find that comfortable place between waking and dreaming. A sense of dread sets in as I let my mind wander toward imagining how tired I’ll be at work the next day. Why can’t insomnia hit during the weekend? The weekend. I start to formulate a plan to traverse the mountain of freelance work that looms before me. My mind drifts and catches rhythm with the whipping wind outside.
The alarm wakes me again with a start.
Without the kick from the furnace and the rush of warm air pumping through the vents, it’s quiet. I move slowly, deliberately; not wanting to disturb the hush that’s settled over my apartment both inside and out. My mind strains to recall parts of my dream. Frustration begins to build because I know my subconscious is trying to process or tell me something. Minutes pass while I slip in and out of zombie stasis, moving and thinking only when my body tells me I’m uncomfortable. A Fedex flight roars above in the night sky and I instinctively know it’s close to 2 a.m.
I move to the living room because staring at the ceiling and walls isn’t helpful. Maybe it’s too quiet. I flip on the television. Even Conan can’t save me now. Surely George Lopez will put me to sleep. Channel surfing gives way to another bout of frustration. I hum along with Bruce Springsteen’s “57 Channels and Nothin’s On” under my breath. The clock. It’s approaching 3 a.m. and I can’t find that comfortable place between waking and dreaming. A sense of dread sets in as I let my mind wander toward imagining how tired I’ll be at work the next day. Why can’t insomnia hit during the weekend? The weekend. I start to formulate a plan to traverse the mountain of freelance work that looms before me. My mind drifts and catches rhythm with the whipping wind outside.
The alarm wakes me again with a start.
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