Dread

You don’t want to go to sleep. You know that come the morning you have things to do. People to see. A reputation to maintain.

You want the weekend to last forever. Endless irresponsibility, endless rest. Anything to avoid the memory of the march of time, of the things that must be done. If you had nothing to do, you would long once again for obligations for a path forward, for goals and targets, but having those things you despise them and the prison they have you in.

If you never slept, you surmise, the morning would never come. Eternal night, with no tomorrows.

Despite the low level buzzing of anxiety, you waver, your eyes are weak. Where youth could once propel you sleepless for days, now you are old and weary, sinking quietly into the sands of time.

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