There are nights I cannot seem to sleep.
They used to happen every once in a blue moon but as the days pass me by, it is becoming a habit somehow. Not that I like it but I am still unsure of why it is happening.
Maybe my mind has lost its quietness.
Anyway, when it happens, I stare at the ceiling or the bottom of the top deck of the bunk bed. Just lying on my back, listen to my own breathing and playing with my turquoise dream catcher or trace the lines on the cheap Ikea wood bed frame. The darkness is so quiet, accepting and safe. It hides me so well and I love being hidden. Especially under pillows and comforters and warm skin.
Then I start to think and question and sigh and sometimes, talk to myself.
Just careless whispers.
I always question my existence and I wonder what I am. What am I made up of? Are my memories part of my identity? Or are my choices a bigger part of who I am? How many sides of me are there? Will I ever tell someone who I really am? Will I know myself well enough to do that? Why am I thinking about this in the middle of the goddamn night? Is someone thinking of me? What is ‘me’?
And soon enough, I will drift off to sleep.