General

Amelia could only sleep when exhausted. When she felt the tiredness in her chest, in how she breathed and her thoughts dragged by in slow motion, she slunk to a quiet spot and curled up. On good days she'd get three hours, on bad days two. Should she doze later on she'd wake as soon as sleep came, always as fast as if a gunshot had sounded, heart beating fast and breathing as if she'd just surfaced from deep water. After that it was time to get up, to do something, keep moving...

General

In the days since Ryan's passing insomnia is the companion that won't quit. Time has taken on a different form, more plentiful than ever it was, more quiet moments to think though the oblivion of sleep would be kinder. He was my safety, my harbour, a place to call home no matter where we were. In all these wakeful hours he is fading spectre and beneath it all is a shock I can't quite let surface, because every time it comes close my nightmare solidifies, hope fades and the sick feeling returns to my guts.

General

Insomnia haunts my nights; fatigue rules my days. When I need to be lucid and clear my brain begs for unconsciousness, for sleep at any price. But come the hours of darkness in the comfort of my bed, my mind lights up with new possibilities, new sources of disaster and danger. I want to let them go, to count sheep and relax, but soon the sheep are telling me what can go wrong tomorrow because of some avoidable blunder I made today. When I finally sleep I wake after only a couple of fitful hours and wake as if a whole night had passed, but it hasn't. I wish I could be one of those people who roll over and doze off but I can't. I can either lie in my bed watching the colour slowly seep back into the walls, waiting for the dawn chorus, or I can get up. Sometimes I curl up in my pyjamas with my laptop, other times I get dressed and go downtown to a late night club or bar. If I'm going to die early from never sleeping enough I figure I should make the most of my time...

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, December 22, 2014.
General

Eleven o'clock morphs into twelve and then one. The time trickles by, marked only by those changing glowing numerals. My mind is blank; where there should be dreams is a heavy blackness. My eyes are as stationary as the silhouette of my bedside lamp, which is where they rest. When the sallow glow of the streetlamp behind it becomes white, I know my night is over. My mind flickers to the cupboard and the sleeping pills the doctor prescribed. I don't want them, I don't want chemicals. I close my eyes and they almost sting, open too long I guess. After some moments I recall an old russian tale and let it mull around my head. Perhaps this old story can pull my thoughts into the randomness that is a prelude to sleep and dreams. "Sasha is in the snow, the bitter wind whips at her as she trudges to the lodge. Inside is Grandfather with his tales of yesteryear..."

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, December 22, 2014.
General

The blackness blankets my still form. I lie as if asleep until my side is painful and I must shift to my back or other side. The long minutes drag into even longer hours but I refuse to look at the clock. To see that it is still before midnight or just two a.m. would be enough to send my heart racing and undo the calming effect of being so restful. The relaxing music I put on at bedtime finished long ago, and though I remain willfully blind I suspect it's closer to the dawn than I would like. When the daylight shines on my shuttered lids and the birds fill the air with their own music, I will throw back the covers and descend to the kitchen to brew a strong coffee. Then I will snag another at the coffee shop on the way to the office. Perhaps Eric is right, perhaps it is time to see the doctor.

As light ebbs into the room my heart sinks- another night claimed by insomnia, another long, long day ahead with no chance to rest...

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, December 23, 2014.
General

I would describe my insomnia as like being jacked up on uppers all night without any of the fun. Actually, it's as boring as hell. I've gone through three mattresses in the time my sister has had one, with each toss and turn the coverings wear a little thinner. Perhaps if I was a genius I would have solved some important problem with all this extra time I have, but the only problem I want to solve is why I can't sleep for more than an hour at a time. I used to try running before bed, then yoga, then warm scented baths but nothing worked. I even went through a phase with whiskey, anything to knock me out. Now I'm on pills from the good doctor and they make all my food taste of metal the next day, plus they leave me drowsy. So I have the awesome choice of enjoying my food or sleeping. I go for two or three days without taking one and then I have to. There's only so long I can go before the shampoo starts giving me advice in the shower and I start to see hooded aliens in the streets...

By maria, December 22, 2014.
General

"You cannot imagine the craving for rest that I feel--a hunger and thirst. For six long days, since my work was done, my mind has been a whirlpool, swift, unprogressive and incessant, a torrent of thoughts leading nowhere, spinning round swift and steady--" He paused. "Towards the gulf."

By mikeb, December 29, 2012.

Found in The Sleeper Awakes, authored by H.G. Wells.

General

"My head is not like what it was," he said, gesticulating for want of expressive phrases. "It's not like what it was. There is a sort of oppression, a weight. No--not drowsiness, would God it were! It is like a shadow, a deep shadow falling suddenly and swiftly across something busy. Spin, spin into the darkness. The tumult of thought, the confusion, the eddy and eddy. I can't express it. I can hardly keep my mind on it--steadily enough to tell you."

By mikeb, December 29, 2012.

Found in The Sleeper Awakes, authored by H.G. Wells.

General

The room is dark. The curtains are drawn in a vain attempt to filter the orange glow of the streetlights illuminating the street outside. I glance at the digital clock at the side of my bed, the numbers 0225 glowing in a bright green. I sigh wearily. Unable to sleep, I sit upright on my bed, my legs outstretched and covered with my warm duvet. Nights like these are usually quiet, but it isn’t today, because the pitter-patter of rain lingers in the background, like the heartbeat of a mother that cocoons the fetus in her womb. It brings an odd sense of protection and safety along with it. It makes me feel somewhat less alone. Sometimes the rain goes pit-a-pat against the glass of my windows, often sounding like the gentle tapping of someone against it. Intrigued, I push a little bit of the heavy curtains and peek outside. Droplets of water streak down the window panes as it rains on. Odd, fluid shapes spiked at even odder angles that leave trails whenever they move downwards definitely are captivating sights for an insomniac at this time of the day. Through the rain I can make out the street outside. Everything is the same, only grayer and blurred with softer edges. Puddles of rain form in the potholes of the street, temporary homes for little creatures outside.

By taniavee28, April 4, 2017.