On stretches like this, more than a night or so staying up later than I intend, I like to console myself by saying that insomnia thrives in creative people. Clearly my inability to sleep works in direct correlation to my ability to create. And, if you’ve noticed a “minor” dip in my number of posts the past handful of months, then clearly you know that is a load of bull.
I have created things at work – mostly documents, forms, and ideas that I’m sure my coworkers are groaning inwardly about every time I open my mouth. I have written in my trusty moleskine – the thoughts that I’m not brave enough to share with the world as a whole.
But other than that, I’ve watched the minutes and hours tick by while stand up flickers in front of me. I sometimes open a word document (okay, okay, notepad) and stare at it in hopes that I can put something on the screen worth reading. I usually get “I am an idiot,” and then I trail off, but my fingers don’t actually do any typing. Self-deprecating has always been my fall-back for inspiration…not sure what that says about me. It hasn’t been working lately.
Work has been going swell. I love my job. I love my coworkers. My boss wants me to move up, and I want to move up, and my coworkers came out to celebrate my birthday, and I felt celebrated and loved and…there’s that. That’s pretty awesome.
The house stuff is still going well. To be honest, I haven’t been thinking about it because we still have to close. And then we have to wait a week to do anything after that. That’s still pretty awesome.
But you know what’s not awesome? I was awake until 2:30am, went to work, struggled to keep up, and now here it is, creeping up on 11, and I know I’ll probably stay up late again. Bad habits breed bad habits; what’s next?
The worst part is that I could be doing other things. I could be catching up on my reading. I could be writing (oh, wait). I could be crafting or studying or solving the world’s problems, and instead I’m watching Craig Ferguson circa 2009, waiting for something that isn’t going to solve my problems anyway. And it makes me feel isolated. I feel like I’m the only person alive in the world one nights like this; sometimes that can be a peaceful feeling, but most of the time it’s unnerving.
Right now I’m unnerved. I guess that’s why I’m writing about it (maybe again. I really feel like I’ve written about insomnia before). When I feel alone and isolated, I like to write, shout at the world, whether it’s willing or able to hear me or not.