An Insomniac's Speech

August 28

4 a.m.

I have a dream. I have a dream that one day I will have a dream. That one day these bed sheets will rise up and live out the true meaning of their creed, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all sleeps are created equal.” I have a dream that one day on the hills where sheep jump and are counted and insomniacs toss and tumble, they will sit down together at the table of brotherhood. I have a dream that one day even my bed, a bed sweltering with the heat of injustice, the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and complete REM cycles.

But until that day, my dream is but a daydream. Only, what is a daydream called when it happens at night? I close my eyes and my mind wanders, refusing to sit down in the shade for even a short nap. A nice, cool nap under the shade of a weeping willow tree. Swept away in the wind which gently shakes its leaves, I dream of this sleep. But the sleep doesn’t come. The writing comes. The wind comes. I can write, but I cannot sleep.

September 2

2:30 a.m.

Four score and seven years ago was the last time I slept. And the last time my eyes closed and did not reopen for a normal duration of time, I was a child. I scoff at the kid that I was, so innocent, so naive. Tft! Such youth. I never dreamed that adulthood would be full of sweaty duvets that wrap so frustratingly around my legs so that I twist, angrily, swear at them, fling them off me then pull them back on. Oh, how I hate those sweaty duvets. And the sheets! The sheets that feel scratchy and weighty. I curse their pitiful thread count and toss them to the floor as well. The younger me dreamt of king-sized clouds, on which I would drift off lazily into the coming dawn. 

Braver men than I have struggled here before. I wander to the kitchen of this place and sneak a piece of cake. I wonder if this kitchen is consecrated by the ghosts of past sleepless nights. If anyone will remember what we fought for here. If anyone will listen to my address, or Henry’s address, or Timmy’s, Manuel’s, Ray’s? Although I bet Ray doesn’t really keep the diary. He’s a big man, sort of scary.

And who was Gettysburg, after all? I ought to know. But I bet he would remember us, whoever he was. Sorry, Gettysburg, if you ever read this. I only remember part of your speech.

October 10

3 a.m.

The sleeping comes in waves that hit me, hard. I still can’t sleep at night, but I can nap during the day, sometimes. After riding their edges for weeks, I succumb to a couple of deep, powerful currents. They crush me, taking me out for hours. 

As you can see, I’ve run out of speeches, I only knew the two. So here, have my best ocean analogies. But they’re murkier, and full of salt. Not quite so sweet as sampling history’s best orators. 

Oh, and today marks the third month at the halfway house. I got in trouble for stealing the cake, though. Mr. Johnson made me clean the toilets.

December 25

12:47 a.m.

And just like that, it’s Christmas. I can think of the best gift in the world right now, but only God could give it to me. And it seems like he’s terribly determined to deprive me of it. See, a gift wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger. A gift to our world, surrounded by warm breath, twinkling stars, the musky scent of dozing animals. Is it Jesus? Or is it sleep? 

I imagine the makeshift hay crib and I picture myself darting through Bethlehem to get to its side. I kneel down in the dirt, a cooing emerging from the nestled bundle. I peer inside only to see a cartoonish cloud bubble where the baby should lay. The gaudy bubble of Z’s. Zzzzzzz. It mocks me. I can never have the Z’s. After hopelessly clawing for them, they float away into the dark night. I flee from the evil Z’s, the stable, and the baby Jesus who taunts me with his sleep bubble. I hear his evil baby laugh as I tear through Bethlehem in my shepherd’s clothing. Always a shepherd, keeping watch. Counting sheep, but never able to sleep. 

(Excuse my non-purposeful rhyme at the end there. I don’t mean this to be poetry. Ray says writing poetry in our journals is too sissy. I fail to imagine what Ray chooses to write about, but I guess it isn’t poetry.)

July 21

7:15 p.m.

It’s almost night. The nights come later now that it’s deep summer. It’s like the light doesn’t want to disappear while the heat’s still out. Everyone knows it can’t be warm and night. Nights should be cold and crisp, ideal sleeping weather.

I know that soon I will lay my head down and do my prayers. Evil baby Jesus doesn’t mock me in my head anymore. I pray for sleep and it comes most nights, now. I don’t know if I really pray to anything, but I recite these words in my head:

Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I sleep.

Then I swear-to-God I’ll weep.

The humor keeps me light. Without it I fall deep into holes. I tumble under the waves and drown, instead of riding them peacefully. The weeping willow topples over and crushes me before I can ever receive my cool nap. So I make myself laugh, and then hopefully, I make myself sleep.

And on the nights I do not sleep, I write. I’ve found that writing is a refuge almost as refreshing as sleep. (Almost.) These words are my own, and even if I don’t own a thing in this world, I can own my words. And I don’t need to take from speechwriters what I can produce inside my own head. So I don’t steal words anymore, although on occasion I still steal cake.

Oh, and tomorrow I leave the house. This journal will not leave with me, but I will find a new one. And someone will find mine, and then maybe they’ll be able to find their own words, too.

So with that, I say:

Bless my friends, the whole world bless;

Help me to learn helpfulness;

Keep me every in thy sight;

So to all I say good night.