When I was younger, and I still lived in my family house, I had these little plasticy stickers that were the shape of stars. I saw them in a shop, actually, a poundstore chain that's now gone bankrupt. I actually saved up for them - not that they were expensive, but I rarely got money. They were glow-in-the-dark and I pushed them all up against the ceiling of my bedroom. And because I had a bunk bed I could reach up and touch the constellations I'd invented.
My sleep cycle's whirred out of control. I have a habit of waking up at four, or later (and habit is the right word - "habēre, to have" - although in this case, habits tend to have us more than we ever possess them.) The simplest thing would just be to go to bed earlier. Decide to sleep earlier. End the cycle.
But I can't force myself to my bed. There's just a strange hollowness as though I'm waiting for something, and I can't sleep until I get it, but I never get it. Sleeping right now seems so premature. The effort of it, of reaching nothing at all, is so much somehow.
I tried it before, once, but it didn't work then, and by now it might already be too late.
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