Restless Exhaustion - Teenage Style

When the clock is on the verge of striking ten o'clock as the remarkably bright moon illuminates the sky and families of pure white stars dazzle like sparkling glasses of luxuriously expensive champagne cluster together to offer a guidance of trustworthy light in the midst of unforeseeable darkness, I hop into the warm comfort of my own bed, my eyes ready to close gently and transport my exhausted, hard-working self into unconsciousness until the following morning awakens me from my usual eight hour trance and marks the start of a new day dawning upon myself.

Yes, sleep ought to be all about wearing leopard print pyjamas and snuggling up like a sleepy-eyed kitten on the sofa (in one's dreams, anyway) - when I feel like I've discovered my chunk of restful, soothing peace, hardly a moment passes until I hastily swallow it as I wish for nothing more than to hold onto the euphoria it brings and the much coveted rest it offers my otherwise ready-to-pass-out body.

Yet once a pattern of poor, irritating nights begins, the newly unwanted habit quickly becomes a nuisance which is a nail-biting struggle to fight - think of restlessness as a fatiguing tug of war, albeit you are probably wearing the Spongebob Squarepants pyjamas that you would die of red-faced embarrassment of being found wearing or have completely rinsed your spottier-than-a-Dalmatian face free of concealing make-up which present a sort of armour from your natural, though slightly disliked and unappreciated appearance. Hopefully, I'm praying to the supreme lack of stars hiding behind the metal grey clouds this morning that I'll rediscover my inner, awaiting-to-be-unleashed pineapple-sized chunk of peace, though my non-existent patience is starting to reach a boiling point where I can no longer stand to be the receiver of irritation or endless agony.

In case you happily skimmed over the post I uploaded here yesterday, I literally poured my heart - like the glass of sweet, revitalizing juice my lips later tasted, gaining an ambrosial flavour of tropical fruits - out by unveiling the mask which I had placed so tightly across my face, eventually giving in to my secret desires and letting it slip to the Cheerio-littered carpet, because of my powerful yearning of bringing my two new kittens home seems to have taken a day and an age - waiting, it appears, is no longer an option that I wish to take as it has offered nothing yet more tiresome fights against myself, resulting in doubts about stability and the way which I truly feel, deep down. Originally, my mind was placed under the alluring impression that I felt a million times better after getting my feelings down into a form - so be it whether it was a piece of paper or, as I demonstrated, on my blog, where I seem to have a tendency to reveal so many truthfully honest things about myself - which my eyes could see and re-read, absorbing the manner in which I described the sensations racing around my body, incomprehensible of emotions racking my hormone levels above the roof, and I genuinely began to perk up and smile a bit more, though I'm not in a position to deny the swayful powers that a good-looking lipstick can do to lift one's mood from remaining stuck in the dumps.

Obviously, I unfortunately proved myself wrong when I slipped into bed last night and was unable to fall into a dreamy, hours-long slumber for a ridiculous amount of time; being gripped by every single heart-pounding word in a young adult fictional thriller barely provoked a yawn to slip out of my mouth, failing to reduce the sudden outburst of awakening vivacity preventing myself from gaining the desperately needed sleep my body urged to receive; despite lying underneath the warming covers, nothing would give me any guidance as to how to make a safe journey to the Land of Restoring Slumber. And what hurt the most? Unlike a few months ago where my cat, Jerry, would wander around the passage way and leap onto everybody else's beds except my own (staying true to the Drama Queen whom I naturally am, I would've kicked up a massive fuss if anybody or a furry pal threatened to disturb me in bed when I least wanted it), there wasn't anything apart from a book, placed-away laptop and flame-haired tiger toy with a particular menacing glare - even little plush toys had to creep me out in the middle of the pitch-black night - to distract me from my thoughts, which kept focusing on Bart and Benny and imagining the undoubted successful night of rest that they, the constantly sleepy kittens, would get.

Although I haven't taken much time to think about it or place a particular emphasis on the subject, the only occasion when my body is free of thoughts regarding white-pawed and half-smirking kittens (according to the slightly blurred picture I took of the Kits six weeks ago today) is at nighttime, the sole safe haven of peace and tranquillity available to myself whilst I increasingly grow nail-bitingly agitated - come on, the Kits must be ready by now, surely? Judging by the amount that I wrote about the troublesome pair - or Bart, to be more precise, if I stand correct by his description of 'terrorizing' the other kittens, pitifully scared stiff in a corner - yesterday afternoon, a lot of anguish has been bottled into a can of caffeine-free Diet Coke as of late, particularly as disappointment has flooded my heart and destroyed my secretly-rising hopes on a few, yet plentiful enough occasions - what more can I be expected to take? Don't misjudge me and lazily make the assumption that I'm thinking of no one else except my oh-so-poor self, but if the Kits are starting to seep into my thoughts during my time of rest - the only kind which I'm guaranteed to receive on a daily, continuous basic, and to which I'm equally entitled like everybody else living on the planet - can my feelings, which has been thrusted up the wall for a while, be taken into consideration and understood?

Sleep, sleep, SLEEP. I must admit, those rather domineering capitals are specially reserved for once-in-a-while occasions such as these when I can sense my lifeless, dull-as-plain-bread eyes drooping towards the floor or the vibrant pink Hello Kitty pillow lying on my neatly made bed and my heart doesn't beat excitedly and with so much passion at thought of studying or even writing here, which I feel half-inclined to do. My head is in such a mess right now that I'll be counting down the hours until bedtime arrives and I'll be obliged to follow my body's instructions to rest - the desired dream which has not yet been included on my imaginary wishlist on Amazon, though I have no doubts that the Nina Ricci perfume will regain the top, strongly coveted title within no period of time.

When I dream - or rather, if I can remember these fantasies which are resurrected inside my sleepy mind - nothing can touch me or bring me back to Earth, unless a brother with a piquant breath smelling of milk shrugs me awake or a sudden ray of sunshine lands upon my bedhead mane of Thornton chocolate-shaded hair on a strangely luminous winter morning. Sometimes, during moments such as this unfortunate one, I fantasize about leading a life as a fish-eating, catnip-maddening cat, whose handsome fur coat will attract hushed 'awws' from loving owners, otherwise known as my cat-adoring parents - at least I would gain some sleep and be left alone from my hair-raisingly annoying, though evenly kind brother for a few heavenly hours during Chelsea's make-or-break match.

At long last, this day - a short, yet equally memorable blip - will come to an end and the curtains will be closed until a new crisp morning dawns, hopefully without a thicker-than-whipped-cream layer of snow covering the road and frosty gardens. Teenagers are supposed to love spending as much time dozing in bed as using the justly attractive internet, right? I count myself amongst them, too, though I hope that my temporary exclusion will not detract me from its ever-increasing list!