Sleeplessness isn't just a condition in Seattle. I lie awake every night, wrestling with my thoughts. I have this old, nagging feeling that lingers in the back of my mind, similar to that sinking feeling I get when I miss an important call and realise that the moment has passed. Poor timing, as per usual. It's also like how my anxiety level increases when I lose my phone. No big deal - it’s not like a truckload of people are desperately trying to contact me, yet I can’t rest until I’ve located it.
That curious, niggling, persistent feeling that I can’t shake off. It’s not prickly or sharp; it's round, stubborn, and sticky. Not big enough to be an annoyance, nor is it an itch that I’m dying to scratch, but lodged just in the right spot to border on bothersome. Like a light bruise on my arm that only aches when pressed but doesn't hurt on its own.
Perhaps my temporary insomnia is due to the national quarantine. I’m delirious from cabin fever, and my suffering may be imagined or real, but it’s nonetheless exhausting. Writing is therapeutic and a healthy outlet for me. After a messy mental spill, something indescribable in my heart loosens and settles; then I can relax and finally close my weary eyes.