Insomnia

Switiching it up today.

Insomnia, Astrid decided, was a bitch. And not the sort of bitch that was actually a decent sort of woman that was maybe a little too aggressive and refused to go quietly into that good night of socially accepted chauvinism. Insomnia was stone cold, cruel, liked to kick puppies and didn't smile at kittens, bitch. 

Astrid was willing to admit that she would have less of a problem with insomnia, if she had less of a problem with insomnia. 

Three in the morning stretched out dark and useless with nothing but the promise that she had to be up in two hours and her alarm would start blaring in one. Astrid didn't own a television, couldn't afford internet, and the lamp beside her bed had burnt out two weeks ago. She had yet to replace the bulb. All she could do was stare up at her water-spotted ceiling and refuse to get out of bed because it was three in the goddamn morning, and she didn't have to be up yet.

She missed the days when having three alarms going off at half hour intervals had been a necessity, but Astrid had been filled with a strange, thrumming restlessness for months now. She couldn't remember when it had started, the feeling creeping up slowly, held at bay by daylight hours and drudgery, but sneaking into the odd moment, the interminable silences she had forced herself to grow accustomed to. In the dark, her thoughts stretched to fill the limits of her tiny studio, beating at the windows like trapped, frantic hummingbirds. Dawn, which had been as mythic to her as a Greek god, was now a welcome companion. 

Astrid rolled her head across her disheveled pillows to stare at her alarm clock, a cheap, plastic thing with red digital numbers she had bought at the Good Will.

3:10

Fuck her life.

.... so, I apologize the rampant swearing. Oops?