Why did I turn out like this? I want to know why the most. Why…? Why…am I so…? I’m miserable…and so lonely…

Three o’clock —
anxiety, regret
in the depths of worry
swept away in the
whirlwind of nothing —
a horrible nothing.

In the morning you beg to sleep more, in the afternoon you are dying to sleep, and at night you refuse to sleep.

When I miss you, even the silence is unbearably loud.

“This is awful. This is not fun drunk.”

I got up and cleared the coffee table out of the way so the Colonel could walk the length of the room without hitting any obstacles, and said, “Okay, can you stand?”

The Colonel pushed his arms into the foam of the couch and began to rise, but then fell backward onto the couch, lying on his back. “Spinning room,” he observed. “Gonna puke.”

Look at this fucking place. Only a fucking ape would live here. What the fuck am I doing here?

Because that is the Cat’s “Role”. All of us are monsters. Miserable, Misshapen creatures. Don’t tell me you think we’re happy like this? That we enjoy being freaks? Do you know how many handicaps we have, how much pain we go through, just to survive within the framework of this world…? Do you? To us, the existence of the Cat is our salvation. Without him, our lives would be completely unbearable. You see-that monster is the ugliest of us all. He’s inferior to us all. So it’s only natural for him to be discriminated against, disrespected, and locked up. The rest of us look at the way he’s treated-and we signed with relief. “Thank God,” We think. “At least I’m better off than that.” You should ask the others sometimes. “Did you know he was going to be confined? Deep down, don’t you feel superior to him?” They won’t know what to say. The Cat was prepared as an outcast creature…for our sakes. And Kyo…knows that too-.

I have lost my rhythm.
I can’t sleep.
I can’t eat.

I have been robbed of
my filth.`

Sometimes,
all you can do
is lie in bed,
and hope
to fall asleep
before
you fall apart.

It get worse at night when I am alone and sleepless.

I’ve had such bad insomnia the sleep cops have issued a warrant for my rest.

Both sleep and insomnolency, when immoderate, are bad.

Waking up was a daily cruelty, an affront, and she avoided it by not sleeping.

But [Pooh] couldn’t sleep. The more he tried to sleep the more he couldn’t. He tried counting Sheep, which is sometimes a good way of getting to sleep, and, as that was no good, he tried counting Heffalumps. And that was worse. Because every Heffalump that he counted was making straight for a pot of Pooh’s honey, and eating it all. For some minutes he lay there miserably, but when the five hundred and eighty-seventh Heffalump was licking its jaws, and saying to itself, “Very good honey this, I don’t know when I’ve tasted better,” Pooh could bear it no longer.

Sleep deprivation is physically miserable and creatively cathartic, as internal landscapes rise up from their dormant ashes.

She lay down and never stirred. To move hand or foot, or even so much as one finger, would have been an exertion beyond the powers of either volition or motion. She was so tired, so stunned, that she thought she never slept at all; her feverish thoughts passed and repassed the boundary between sleeping and waking, and kept their own miserable identity.

He imagined himself lying there, unable to sleep, thinking of his mother, separated from her by the unresponsive blankets tucked too tightly round him, feeling the ceaseless thumping of his heart in the silence of the night, the irrevocability of absence, the rigid stillness of repose, the agony of solitude and sleeplessness. If the room was a prison, the bed was a tomb.

Not being able to sleep is a nightmare.

When I don’t sleep, it’s not that I feel tired so much as assaulted. In the morning after a night of no sleep my eyes are sore and tender and can barely open. My joints ache. There’s a taste in my mouth which isn’t like any other taste, only a feeling, and that feeling is defeat. My skull aches evenly across its hemisphere. […] I go to bed at night, I get beaten up, come downstairs in the morning. Then I go about the day as if things were normal and I hadn’t been beaten up, and everyone else treats me as if I hadn’t been beaten up, and that way I survive, but no more than that. If somebody willed your destruction they could do it this way, by taking away your sleep. Of course, it’s tried and tested.

Listen, there are different ways of getting closure and one of those ways might be to make someone miserable for the sake of satisfying your petty soul.