They catch up with you, those little niggling thoughts.
Sometimes, they're a welcome addition to the whole family of ideas that go racing around in your skull. Othertimes, well, they just tend to overstay their welcomes. Slavering little hyenas, yelping and fucking, persistently nipping at you no matter how you jam your eyelids shut.
But this is why you're so afraid of numbers-- it's not your taxes or your phone bill-- it's not that you were traumatized to find out that seven ate nine-- it's not that your father beat you with a switch every time you forgot a decimal place of pi-- it's that fucking clock of yours. It's liquid crystal dripping, like some kind of Chinese Water Torture, every agonizing drop a an aeon you've been kept awake.
It's in league with the hyenas, I swear. The two of them, mocking you, forcing you to turn and twist as your bedsheets contort around you. The ravenous fabric python constricts and envelops, choking you. Oh, but the python is a damned tease, and refuses to carry out the motions in full by delivering you into oblivion. It just half-kills you while the hyena-thoughts pick apart your thought-muscles. And the red glowing numbers, the king of your dysnumeria, tell you that it's barely been a minute since you last checked it.
But I have to be up tomorrow. I have things to do. I'm going to be dead tired, I'm going to be a zombie. Like that little horrid little jungle that was your bedroom gives a damn about you. Survival of the fittest, and you're barely fit for scraps. The fresh sweat beads impetuously across the whole of your body. Can't-bare-to-acknowledge-o'clock-in-the-m
It's the worst kind of addiction, you know, and a deadly kind of withdrawal that few (if any) can kick. Get them hooked while they're young, and they're lifelong addicts, spending a third of their life in thrall to this most potent of hallucinogenic-paralytic restorative draughts. Every night, I'm left to wonder, how would I ever give up sleep?