Contemplatively, I lay. I try to grasp sleep but my eyes keep snapping open. I try to let my heavy lids rest, but I keep interrupting them with my thoughts. With my childish musings. I can’t sleep.

The thing that keeps me awake is not really the contemplations, but the questions that lead to the contemplations. Why?… Why. The countless questions that flow through a never-ending stream of consciousness.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m manic depressive. Of course, if I can wonder that, I’m probably not. Which is a good thing.