The label on the bottle kindly suggests: “2 per night”. That looks like a promise if I ever read one. I’m 6 down though and still, this stupid shard of light, pouring its entire existence into my eyes like scorching acid, is depriving me of the dreamy morning I haven’t had in weeks: one from the glossy pages, with my face photoshopped onto literally anyone’s, casually present in the kitchen, making liberal use of my well-rested limbs by pouring rainbows and fake happiness into a steamy mug of fresh coffee and plans for the day. The mug I’m holding in the picture is white, devoid of messages or an agenda, partly because I’ve yet to figure out which cause I truly want to stand behind. In reality, the only mug I own spells "Wank for Peace". I will buy a new mug. Just not before I’ve dealt with this annoying light seeping through the curtain sliver that isn’t actually there – it’s dark as hell and I’d covered my face with an extra pillow to make sure of it. My room is a literal black-out.

Still, night, after night, after night, I am kept awake until the pitch-black outside my window inevitably transforms into purple, then into pink, then into orange, then into blinding, then into spewing that "the morning has cometh!". In waiting for the inevitable, my body violently shape-shifts, assumes abstract positions, sweats and freezes, bones hurt and I can hear their clanking, all the muscles and the nerves feel tangible through the transparent skin – each one stretched out like an expertly tuned guitar string. My head expires both under the weight of tiniest of blinks and torrential, useless thoughts. The struggle is real.

What about trying reflection? You know, like they show in films: the beyond-help, tortured protagonist doing some serious, enviable soul-searching in a dimmed-out hotel room, all dishevelled locks of hair and flawlessly lit brow furrow? I can do that, can’t I? Think deep thoughts? Entertain profound self-investigation, the sheer boredom of which will knock me out? Or who knows, I could discover something daunting, something inexplicable, incomprehensible, disturbing, something I could justify dedicating entire nights to. Alas, I’m sh-t out of luck. “Must sleep” is the only recurring echo of a thought bouncing in the skull. The quicker the skull reduces in size, the harder the bounce. Thanks a bunch, reflection, I’ll call you if I need anything else.

I’m slowly starting to resent my friends, why do they insist on making casual points of their good night’s sleep during our conversations? Heard of empathy? Right now, I could break the necks of all the chosen ones who dare whine to me about “slight tiredness” because they “had to” rise before noon. Noon??? I am in proximity to people who can sleep till noon? Well I can’t, and that gives me plenty of time to go through possible weapon combinations for their untimely and unnatural demises: hunger to you, exposure for him, consumption for them. Yes, I will assign sexier deaths to some and more basic to others – not all of my friends are into glamour.

Seriously, should I try the method of reminiscing? Will that help? Ah, remembering the adolescent ease that used to magically find me underneath the OCD-caressed duvet and whisk me straight into the Neverland allure. When dreams existed but not disturbed, when sounds soothed, when the monotony of a clock’s ticking hypnotised me out of the intrusiveness of a day and into the calmness of nothingness. Now the memory is merely a trap, a power imbalance, a losing game where everything is the predator and I am me. Every night, the torch preys on me and finesses its attack: it plays, it cuddles, it tortures, it shakes, it asphyxiates, it squishes, it blinds – some serious Zero Dark 30.

If I take two more pills, will this bastard of a light go away? Will it free my body into weakness and eventual, longed-for numbness? I wish I knew what I was fighting. What is the face of the demon behind this light that’s holding hostage my peace, my “sweet dreams made of these”? Come out, come out, wherever you are. Come out and I will kill you dead. I want you not dimmed, not quiet, not in submission, but irrevocably, irreversibly deceased, squashed to the bloody end, with your blazing yellow mass splattered on my face like a filthy money shot. No afterlife, either.

So, more pills? Good plan!