Posted in Blog: Taglish | Categories: Non-Erotic | Tags: insomnia
Flesh tablets and lipstick-red capsules were scattered across the floor, probably from a certain container that fell from the queen-sized bed. The bottle failed to put a label, but from what she had seen: it’s a combination of painkillers and sleeping pills. As the investigators analyze the attempted suicide, the girl wasn’t breathing. Overdose. Probabilities evolve: the suspect (or victim) probably killed himself out of depression, of failed lovelife, of extreme loneliness. All the while, they were overlooking the simple answer.
The dead girl? It was me, but that paragraph was pure fiction. Yet the reality is here to stay.
The grief-stricken mixture of hassle and pressure was too powerful to knock out a lady like me. Skipping the normal sleeping time, establishing your own time zone, and going against all normal people – I say, is hard. I eat my meal, I go online, I post something on Facebook, I do my morning ritual, post something on Twitter, I play the guitar and I even daydream during midnight. Adik talaga. Gising sa gabi, antukin sa umaga. Computing on how many hours have I slept for the past days: two, three, two. Weekends would be four or five. Six hours would be the maximum: that is – if I crossed out something on my planner.
Uhh, I don’t have a planner. It’s just on my mind.
Right now, my brain wants to tear apart. Like a nutshell emptying its juices in a Pyro-olympic form. I have felt its i...