I throw off my sheet in frustration, hot from all my restless tossing and turning. I wish I knew how to make it stop. That never ending circuit of thoughts of an elusive her, or past you, or present me, or future something. Of memories or fantasies that make me jolt or cringe or sigh and toss and turn again. I grip my head, tormented. I want to shake them clear, set them free and just be empty but empty in the good kind of way, just for a night of peace. A night of sleep. A night of still, calm, quiet, mindless black. So I say the word to myself. Like a mantra. Like a kind of meditation. Black. Over and over. Black. Until only thoughts of the colour and the word fill me. Black, to nullify the neurotic rumination running rampant in my mind. Black, to numb any pain. Black, to replace faces and names and histories. Black, to shade a vivid imagination. Black, so I can sleep.
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