Melatonin


If you sit still enough, and if you breathe quietly enough, you can hear your braincells dying.

There goes one.
And another.
And another.
And another.
And another.
(When does this fun end?)

Whenever I lie in bed, on a sometimes-futile-and-sometimes-not safari expedition of hunting some Z's, especially in that hour of the night when it is already too late to start sleeping and awfully too early to start off a new day, it scares the living shit out of me to observe the awkward silence that your body and mind make when they are zonked and drained from the brutal chores of the day. Just like how it scares the living shit out of me when my professors know my name and they would not hesitate to use that knowledge in the classroom in front of a whole room of people you would not want to be associated with.

Breathing.
Heartbeat.
Digestion.
That constant ringing in the left ear.
The stretching of the waistline from a horribly gluttonous dinner.
Braincells dying, like popcorn kernels.
Muscles loosening, like Batman's underwear.
Body temperature dropping, like sagging breasts.
Or quicksand on a very humid day.

I can't comfortably fall asleep without having to put a pillow over my face so that my breathing would be obstructed and the hot air exhaling through my nostrils making a hell of a lot of noise for just a hot air through the nostrils. Or to hook up on a pair of stereo headphones, listening to The Smiths to fall asleep.

Just so I drown the silence.
Just so I can go to sleep.

Without having to think that my lung capacity is decreasing with age.
Or my bone density.
Or my braincells.
Or my creative streak.
Or my hairline.
Or my tolerance for loud music.
Or my immunity against spicy food.

How old is 23 today, anyway?
28 year-old?
34 year-old?
In, say, 1924, how old is a 23 year-old in the eye of society?
Were 23 year-olds able to, say, wet their beds after a really good horror film and get away with that?
"Ah, he's just 23 years old, he'll grow out of it soon. Just like his father did."
Or to shit in their pants the first day in college for being too afraid to ask the professor to go to the loo?
"Ah, it's his first time faraway from home, he'll learn how to crap on his own."

Are we really rushing to grow up?
Are we really being rushed to grow up?

Sigh.

I wish I hadn't thought of such things before going to bed -- I'll have nightmares.