This is the insomnia.

There are lies that we tell ourselves. Moronic and dreadful tales about ourselves. Living in this city, this game of emotional twister that we throw ourselves into.

What is the point? Some people will tell you that it's just life. You live then you die. There is something more though. Why are we giving these souls, memories of lives we haven't lived, or of lives yet to come.

Sometimes I think about John Wayne Gacy, Jeffrey Damher, Ed Gein, you know, lawful folk like them. I wonder if they did what they did in order to seek the real life that is meant to be out there. Sure they may have gone a little overboard. But that really isn't up to us to decided. It's up to them, God, such as he is, gave us free will. So therefore these men, arrested and in some cases executed, for their crimes, crimes of free will. When you think about it, if these men's free will instructed them to do what they did, then aren't the police and those in justice who carried out their sentence, aren't they going against the will of God. That must be why they did it. They must feel that to do what God does makes you more like God. There is a little thing that I tell myself from time to time, something that I keep under my cap, for rainy days and when relatives visit. That most of these people will die before I will, so the time that I spend with them is limited, thankfully.

At the moment I'm going through my fifth night of not sleeping. I don't know if it can be classed as Insomnia. To me Insomniacs are those mental cases that sit on part benches at two in the morning. You know the type I'm talking about, out of work actors, mad playwrights that suffer for their work.

The second night I did try to bang my head against the wall. The only problem I found was that the walls were not as strong as I thought they were. I had to do some plastering, and get two stitches. The pain was something unique. Something that I needed to feel again.

Have you ever looked into a neighbour's house, at night, when they think there is nothing wrong with dancing around an unprotected window? Their behaviour is really something to behold. Magnificent.

Go to your window now and look over to your neighbour's house, you'd see more than you bargained for. I started to wander aimlessly around the neighbourhood the other night. Looking into each window that I passed. I don't mean that I went up close to them, but I casually glanced into the darkness that they held. The streets of this neighbourhood are filled with terraced housing, the odd one modified to be a local grocery store, which have metal shutters, no windows.

A man and a woman passed me by. I know that their sex is irrelevant, but you needed to know. They gave me a cautious look as I drifted by; I know what they were thinking, they thought, 'What a sad Soul.' Tempted as I was, I didn't bash their heads in. I watched them huddle together and proceed away from me.

I walked as far as I could, and looked at my watch, 3 am and counting. Suddenly I realised that there were sleeping pills at home. Then, to my surprise, I found that I had walked over three miles from my house.

The cars that were on the road all seemed to stop. Their bright headlights flickering, I put it down to sleep deprivation, and it couldn't be anything else. I made my way home, hoping that my tired legs would carry me. The annoying thing I find about not sleeping is that other single parts of our bodies drift into sleep, our legs, arms and sometimes asses can fall asleep on us, and with relative ease. I don't know if that's far, and can cause some hard feelings to be brought upon the slumbering limbs.

I get to the Nissan Dealership on the Naas Road, looking at the bright vehicles that are shinning at me. The new Primera standing proudly against the backdrop of a painted and cartoon City Street. I had a mild conversation, and debate with myself about whether I should take driving lessons. At this point in my life, I didn't see the point. I found the sleek metallic paint, red I believe, to be very warm, that's what may have caused me to linger there for three minutes longer than I should. The cars on the road had started to move again, while I was watching the stationary one. Funny how things work out. I move towards my destination again. I walk the streets.

Home. Warm and familiar. They say you can never go home again, crap. I mean, here I am, I left home four hours ago and now I am back. Those phrases may be created for movies or greeting cards, but they suck more than a vacuum cleaner. That's not to say that the silver screen hasn't given us the odd keeper. 'We're gonna need a bigger boat' for instance. I remember watching Jaws when I was a kid, and being scared shitless of that lump of rubber. To date, sharks are my only fear. But watching that film was something to behold, even today, it still gives me the chills.

Doubt that any of you acknowledge this but fear is very underrated; fear can be your best friend when there are none showing their faces.

I get up to my bedroom. Allow the moonlight to guide me around the poky little place of slumber, I have electricity, I have bulbs, just prefer natural light to the pale yellow of the bulb. I find the box that contains the amitriptyline, and I know that the label say take one at night, but tonight I'm rebel without a REM and I need one, so I take two. Still no sleep. I get very relaxed though, and watch the moonlight fade and the glory of gold, 6am.

The city stirs, fights against the peace, and somewhere, someone is drilling. In this big, by Irish standards, city there is always someone drilling something. I often think that we should just destroy the whole lot and start again, at least then when we are finished, no one would need to drill. Though that would only be until a newly married couple move into their first place together, then one, usually the wife, would want to change something, so that their small piece of heaven can be as she imagined it would be. Though when you are six years old you don't have to face the reality of the money it costs to create this Xanadu. By the time the married couple get the house to look like it should be, one of them is either dead or moved out. Then the circles end becomes its beginning again.

I get out of bed, the amitriptyline wearing off, and my patience with sleep wearing thin. I go to the sofa and lay down, thinking about getting a job that I hate, so I can have more money that I can't spend, on things that just take up space and collect dust. I have a VCR that collects the dust thank you very much, and it needs no competition. Daytime TV starts, the highlight to my morning. Two fashionable people reading poorly researched stories off cards given to them five minutes before cameras roll. Oh joy to the world.

Today's topics are entertainment, fashion and sodomy. Ok, they aren't going to talk about sodomy, but if they did their ratings would soar. No, they are going to talk to people whose opinions don't count outside the screen. The real entertainment will come from the news. Someone's children have been snatched, that's reporting gold to those newscasters. False sincerity, realistic odds of the child being returned and most of all, the name of the weatherman, or woman. I have a good idea about a way to view this story. It's always about a parent, who thinks that a ten year old child is old enough to go to the local Mall, or supermarket by themselves, and then that child would be abducted, wow, what a surprise. My view would be to take those parents with their false view of their children and sit them down to look at pictures of how the police have found other children. The pain and the suffering would be worth capturing then, the look on their faces when their brains do what comes naturally, and the parent pictures what their child will look like, when or if they are found. It's just a suggestion.

Lunchtime. The big decision, what will I have to eat, Chinese spare ribs in a sweet sauce, no, had that the previous eighteen months, everyday. Then again, why break with tradition. The sky outside is blue; I can't say sky blue, that would be too obvious. I know that by six pm it's going to be raining; we have all four season in the space of 24 hours here. It's something that we expect.

I make a decision. I can't stand being awake anymore. I just want ten minutes sleep, and I know what is stopping me from sleeping. I know that her voice is keeping my mind going strong. She is up there. She is keeping it company.

Since I lost my job, she is all that I have. Her beautiful brown eyes control my heartstrings. The complaints from my place, my solitary area that is being invaded by my own purpose. I lost my job from spending too much time there, comforting the attic that she was a vital part of it, a necessary evil, but it won't realise that I'm just telling the truth.

So I cook the ribs, they are very easy to manage, just five minutes in the microwave. I wonder is she hungry, haven't thought about it, not since she stopped mumbling about two weeks ago. The welfare payment I get isn't that big, though at a pinch would cover feeding two of us. But if she did want to be fed, she would have to do something about that rather pungent odour that is coming from her. Even my beloved Attic is starting to complain to me. What should I do? Will I leave the ribs to cool down for a while, or should I go and ask her if she would like something to eat. Decisions decisions.

I have the ribs, the smell is too much for me, and I am hungry. She hasn't gone anywhere in a while, and hasn't made a sound lately. So the ten minutes that it's going to take me to eat the flesh off the bone here isn't going to kill her.

Kill her? That's a question that I haven't asked myself. Oh, God. Has my Attic done the unthinkable? Has is claimed her life? Maybe through jealousy it has. It can't be blamed, I'm sure that it only did it out of love for me. How can I convince it of that though? That the guilt it may feel for taking the intruders life is not on it's own hands but on mine. Oh, what have I done to my best friend? I was only thinking that it might like some company, that's why I brought her here. The belief, that because I thought that she was special, that belief is now going to mark the relationship I have with my friend. Oh, what have I done? What have I forced?

I still finish the ribs. I am hungry.

Take my time, climb the stairs, climb the ladder. Don't forget, spray the lemon breeze odour remover first, and then enter. The chair, the window. I allowed her to sit there, it is my favourite spot, I thought of transference, and how she would find feelings as strong as mine if she could sit in my place. My friend, Attic, breathes again, I'm with him, or her, I have respected its privacy and not asked it's sexuality, it breathes because I have entered. Her eyes have sunk into her head more, and those blue eyes are paler now. She has lost weight; I should have brought her some broth maybe. Something to keep her skin radiant. I linger, waiting to see if she moves, then I wouldn't have to show my friend what I thought it did to her. Should I tap her on the shoulder, as a prospective lover might do, or a joking friend trying to get her attention? I haven't thought much about the Attic's emotions it was time that I started to. My idea is to play that game, the one we see lovers do, outside our window. I place my hands over her eyes and put myself into the moment. "Guess who?" as jovial as I can muster. Her eyelids did not blink, her skin was cold. I rush around to face her. I realize that she is dead to the world, and I think. If she is gone then I should worry about the living.

"Dear Lord. Oh, my friend?" I wait for an answer that I know is coming. It does come in my ear, whispered, as though it was a brush of wind racking over the roof. "What is it my long time friend?" I'm glad that I can hear a flowering sympathy in the voice. "Oh Attic. It seems that our guest here has starved herself to death." A black bird swoops past the window quickly. I know what that means. Attic is trying to tell me that it's alright, that it's not my fault. It's such a trooper in times of mercy.

That night, we are alone again. Our guest has been removed, she has been buried. I go to my seat, with my friend around me. We watch the darkness fall and the moon rise. There is a peace around, one that I haven't felt since she came to visit, by my will. The true nature of my friend returning, the honestly of the companionship flowing back.

My eyes fall down, and I sleep. My friend is around me, protecting me. In my dream I remember, another prospective friend who may come to visit. In time though, in time.

The End.