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I've never cried myself to sleep.
I can't tell you the number of times my friends have come up to me, with red-rimmed eyes that spoke of sleepless nights, and told me that they'd cried themselves to sleep before telling me what was bothering them. If I could empathise, I would. If I couldn't, I still would.
But I've never understood the concept of crying oneself to sleep. Isn't the pain too acute for sleep? Isn't that why you're crying in bed in the first place?
Angels are rendered in stone; so are demons. Where is the difference?
I live like a saint, you live like a trainwreck. We both have the same end, in death. Where is the difference?
I sit here in the dark, no fear, tears drying in itchy salty tracks on my face. My mind spins ribbons of thoughts, which reminds me of brain tentacles, from Harry Potter.
I devour books again and again. There's nothing in them I don't know, which is much more than I can say for my own life.
Harry Potter's name came out of the Goblet of Fire. Goblets are pretty. The last time I read about goblets was in...the retelling of Cinderella. That was a good book.
I like to drown myself in thoughts, in whirlwinds of colourful words that compose stories in my head. These stories splash some colour on my landscape, colour that falls down like rain. Soon it will bleached dry, black and white again. But for now it's technicolour, as I weave in and out of thoughts, mere thoughts that make reality fiction.
People, real, fictional, talk, converse in my head. They have their problems, somehow simpler than mine. They're not perfect, but nobody expects them to be. That's why they're so real.
I sigh as I lay in bed, and let thoughts and dreams carry me into unconsciousness. Dreams and thoughts are separated by a fine line in my head...
Dreams are a legitimate refuge, thoughts are not.