looking for something

5:38 AM. Plagued by another torterous night of insomnia. All I want is sleep-a blissful, natural, deep slumber. Every night I coax myself into my dreaded bed, reassuring myself "tonight it will be different." And then the misery ensues. It starts with the eyeing of that awful clock, that blinks in flurecent red numbers the account of my failure. 11:08, 1:52, 3:13. I will it to freeze, or break, or abrutly combust into a million little plastic peices by the force of my growing frusteration.
Desperate to distract myself from the ticking time, my mind begins to soar, reaching every depth attainable. Usually it begins with the "shoula, woulda, coulda" thought process, the self depricating and useless cycle of nonesense. So I quickly channel my mind to something of a lighter note- I imagine a sleep-inducing utopia. A woodland in which fairies hum enchanting, haunting tunes while fluttering around the gracefully sweeping willows, where the massive trees blow soft breezes that kiss my cheek, where the full moon hangs low in the sky. This too, fails in my quest for sleep, instead sparking my creativity or inner child. So I venture on- closing my eyes and transporting myself to the past or future. Or to the events of the day or the plans of tomorrow. Nothing. I am restless, growing more and more impatient with each failed attempt.
Must drown out my mind. I anxiously pick up the remote, flipping the TV on to whatever mindless sitcom rerun happens to be playing. But instead of tuning out, I become comletley fascinating with the generic story lines and poor acting, even though I most likely have seen the episode countless times.
TV is off. I crawl to my window and light up a cigarette. My inner judgemental self shakes her head in disaproval, reminding me that nicotine will do nothing but deteorate the situation. I dont care, I inhale deeply, letting the smoke penetrate through my body and thinking how utterly helpless I look; craning my body out the loft window at 3ish AM, desperatly inhaling my cigarette as if it were my vital life nutrient.
My eye catches a bottle of Ambien, carelessly left floating in my sheets. I have taken 1 already, hours ago. I reason with myself that 1 more wont hurt. I soon find it doesnt help either.
So here I am, confessing/complaining, whatever it may be to a computer. It was around 5 or so AM, after a painful 30 minutes of tossing and turning, that I felt that dire need to express myself. And not just to an empty canvas, or empty room, or empty notepad, but to an annoymous audience.
My eyes are now echoing the red of the despised clock. My upper eyelids sink heavily bearing the weight of a truck. My vision is mildly blurred, as if I'm swimming with my eyes open. My reflexes are slow, my body clumsy. Yet, despite all the physical proof, I am not fucking tired. I know- just like every previous night- that once my head hits the pillow, once my eyes dart from the ceiling to the wall to the TV, I will become mentally restless. So I send my pleads out into the void oblivian, begging for just one moment of sedated slumber. Just one fucking moment.