The Contemplations of an Insomniac

I put my head to the pillow knowing it will be another night turned day
Fueled continuously by frustration with the unknown and unknowable
A struggle with the absurd, with apathy and ignorance
-Particularly my own
How can I sleep when there are so many things I don't yet know
A universe of truths I can't even comprehend

I build a nighttime library
Embroidered in the endless wisdom and ignorance of read
Leading only to more questions
Suffocating with the inability to sort truth from perspective
Frustrated with a humbling insecurity that pushes even me to complacency

And for a moment I don't know why I try
I will never achieve the forms, the tirade of questions will never end
But is this not the point of life?
Perpetually striving?

Beat driven, a tune that never ends
Replicated lives across the globe, enough distance to make them unique
And yet, so terribly alone
The solitary shadow of a philosopher struggles to find her place
An era, a city, a community of her own
A place so in-tune with her head and ideals that she can shut out the decrepitude of life outside the bubble
Maybe then she will sleep.

But for now, I am unable to shut off my own voices
A chorus of cacophony, where a single voice cannot be discerned
Consciousness isn't so much a conversation with oneself, but an argument with many selves

These are just snippets of ideas
Always short fragments of something larger
Something greater
But she can't yet see how the puzzle turns out
Though she's beginning to see the outline of the picture

Maybe that's what growing up is--seeing the truth for what it really is
Or maybe that's just another idea she'll grow to discard
Already too, too old to be this young
Too young and indignant to abhor the mindless repetition of the absurd
Hoping this contrast will illuminate the Good
Yearning to be able to create the beauty that she can see
A bumbling force for entropy

The sun's morning rays mock her sacred ambiguity
And as the safe seclusion of night disappears, her memories fade
Dripping like soft pebbles of sand through her open hands
All that remains are the scattered thoughts she committed to written words.