insomnia

She liked feathers and raindrops and stars, and the way her mother said "dinner".  She liked haunted houses and kittens and folk music and crafts.  She liked boys who looked like girls and stores that smelled like perfume.  She liked the way the sun rose hesitantly each morning, and the way the moon transformed.

It was ironic, she always thought to herself as she stared, fascinated, at the numbers flicking by on the digital clock, how much she enjoyed sleeping, and the concept of it, and the way it felt and all, but how little she actually slept.  She would make up excuses, that she was too busy, or talking to somebody, or...or....(they all were lies). 

The secret was that she hated sleeping at night.  She fell into a dreamlike state of life as the numbers climbed towards their peak, and fell back to start again.  It was as though sleep was irrelevant, since she was already dreaming.  And the next morning, her eyes heavy with regret and sadness, her body would reject the day, her mind would reject the nerves that dashed around, craving those refreshing hours.  But at night she would sit at the glowing screen and type on, type faster, trying to evade the hours as they came, feeling satisfied and exhausted as the night wore on.