he closes his eyes and hopes he would fall back asleep. it seldom happens, and he knows that the odds are he will spend the rest of the night in a state of undefined slumber, drifting somewhere between the world of sleep and the world of wake, tormented by that shapeless, vague feeling that woke him up in the first place. these kind of nights are the most difficult of them all -- it feels like being trapped when something is chasing you, unable to move when you know you should be running for your life. there is no position in which he would feel comfortable and not a moment of peace inside the mind that is already moving too fast, now beyond any possibility to control. as he tosses and turns plagued by the images he doesn't have words or even comprehension for, every second feels like two, then three and four; and as time blurs his concept of himself does as well and he becomes one with the horrible emptiness that eats him from the inside like cancer.
in the morning he doesn't remember much; the only evidence is the numbing tiredness that has made a home in him and makes him feel slightly nauseous . as he gets up and makes his coffee -- black with two sugars -- he has the feeling that there is something he has forgotten, something that he should pay attention to. but he doesn't remember and goes on about his day, managing the best he can with the weight of the lack of sleep on his shoulders; and as the day proceeds the feeling wears off and leaves behind a dull headache and a faint taste of copper in his mouth.
