Nighttime is for Racing Thoughts

In the daytime, my thoughts are slow and sticky, like molasses dripping from a spoon. I cannot say what I mean to, even inside my head. I reach for words, try to pluck them from the sky, but they slip through my fingers, never to be found. Things are hazy; a blur. I am walking through quicksand, not knowing where I am. I am forgetful; lost in space.

But as soon as my head touches the pillow, I am once again flying, pulling down words, thoughts, memories, some of them beautiful, all of them amazing. I had all but forgotten this world, where I spin and spin and yet know where I am, and who I am. More importantly, who I was. Because she is the one who comes out at night. They are her memories; her thoughts. I am traveling back in time to when I was normal, a regular person, a person who wasn’t sick. Or at least, she didn’t know it. This is a beautiful world.

You are sleeping next to me and you have no idea that I am traveling through time. How could you know? You never could see inside my head. But if I spoke, oh if I spoke you would know, because you would not be able to understand the fast, fast words spilling from my tongue. You would not understand the swift and whirling world of memories from a time when everything was wonderful, or if not wonderful, meaningful, or if not meaningful, at least alive; I used to be alive, even during the day.

If you woke up, and felt me tossing and twitching, and heard the cogs turning at warp speed in my mind, you would want to pull me back down to earth. And it would remind me that these racing thoughts mean something more. It would remind me that I’m not okay.

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