This brain is a mess of crossed synapses and misfiring electrical impulses. The only time I feel some respite from the shame over its illness is in a deep dreamless state. Most mornings, at not having died in my sleep, I sigh with disappointment. Sorrow creeps deep into my bones, the heaviness of it pinning me to the bed. I close my eyes again desperately seeking, always seeking sleep.
myotherself 