Such a sweet drug, her dreams. Seducing her to a place where she may bend the facts of her existence, allowing the indulging of her heart’s content.
Yet the tenor of the drug, the night, turns on a dime.
She finds herself awake, twisting and tortured like a fish suspended just above the surface of the water.
Endless cups of coffee. Pacing. Burning of the incandescent midnight oil. When will it end, she wonders? And what will the final cost be, for doses of caffeine, wear and tear on socks that clad cold feet, the spike in her electric bill-and for this newly acquired lack of slumber?
Those blissful, distant-memory nights. When the minute-hand scribed the surface of the clock face eight times without her bearing witness to the fact. When refreshing, unbroken rest was paid out as reward at the end of an honest day.
Yet the nights held no promise of such dreams.
She sips her coffee. Dims the chandelier. Walks to the window where the moon bathes her in natural light, certain that when her dreams become reality, this reality will end.
And she will sleep.
A dream has power to poison sleep
– Mutability, Percy Bysshe Shelley