Tuesday, July 7, 2009

A Support Group of Insomniacs


Monster-Girl:


I hope you don't mind, & that you'll forgive me--but I'm hi-jacking your post.

You haven't written in a while, & we're starting to grow concerned. Ha--we're worried about you.

You've become quite infamous "Monster Girl". Torrent.

People all over the 'net are talking about these things you post. Everyone thinks you're just some nameless writer, trying to get published. Someone with an over-active imagination, with only her computer as a window into the world, trying to put the 'net to good use. Basically, they think you're only telling a story.

But I...we thought you should know, that there are others...many others, who believe you.

I haven't slept more than a week in months. That's why we've decided it best to try to contact you...the only way we know how. We've been talking to each other; that's why I've seen it fit to try posting on your site. Hope this works.

Your name is whispered in anxious circles...in the shadows of dark clubs, or under the bright fluorescent lights of all-nite diners...Nuthin but a hot cup of coffee & other insomniacs to keep us company.

Most of us are artists. Some are writers. Or musicians.

They write songs about you. & the things they see. & stories.

When I do sleep...I wake up with images I can't shake loose burned in the back of my retinas.

I wake up & I paint.

The paints take shapes that I don't give them alone...crumbling sandcastles, & wounded creatures I couldn't even imagine....images reflected in shards...images that stay with me. Echoes of my dreams.

I've been painting a whole series...they feature a winged man, with bandages 'round his eyes. He scares me, but it feels better to get him out of my head. Banish him to the canvas. I don't only dream of him though. It's not him who speaks to me...

I find myself compelled to take photographs of long abandoned places, buildings crumbling to dust. Places that have been still for too long. They hold secrets within their walls; I can feel them. I climb inside the wreckage, & see things...scuttling in the shadows. Graffitti that seems to have deep meanings hidden within....

There are too many of us now to name. You're infecting us like a virus. Some are terrified, some think a muse is speaking to them...fueling their "art." Some just want to sleep.

To sleep without these dreams.

I'm not sure what to think, but I don't think it's coincidental that most of the afflicted are "artists". We're more...in sync maybe? Open? Crazy?

Anyways--some of us, myself included...we think you're unwittingly gathering us. Amassing an army sympathetic to you.

& I don't think you're dead either. Or we'd have felt it.

So, we thought you should know, that we're here...& growing with each passing night.


~The Sleepless

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