Of all the things I could’ve wished for, I wished for one thing only: sleep.
Not because the bags under my eyes, with every passing night, got darker, heavier, deeper.
Not because the world around me slept and, so, it felt like the applicable thing to do.
Not because Vogue and aestheticians demanded eight hours in order for my face to “glow.”
Not because my autoimmunity begged me so.
Not because my civilized brain understood sleeping benefits (I’ve been a caveman of some sort).
Not because I cared about the awaiting beautiful sunrise or getting the worm.
Not because I wanted it (though needed); the moon and the stars know I don’t.
I wished for a good night sleep because it was the only time my conscious mind would leave me alone.
It was the only time the tough life would take a nap; the only time I’d be alive yet unconscious in this savage world of ours.
Dreaming away, flying high, free at last.
No first-world problems. No thoughts of who lost the vote, none of work, no thoughts of bills, fears and vices, nor…of love. I wished for sleep because, after all, interestingly enough, without it, my mind atrophies and won’t let me write these poems.
