For months I have been kept awake. The familiar sounds of sirens at all hours of the night, and I find myself restless, pacing the floor, searching around for a quiet spot to hide my head. I have learned to cope, though I do sometimes fall asleep behind the wheel. The strangest part, I’ve found, is my ability to talk backwards.

The man who lives in this home is not very fond of listening to me. Unlike me, he sleeps. He sleeps, day and night, sirens or no sirens. Snoring snorting, smiling with a stupid grin, sometimes talking gibberish. I’ve made a habit of, checking him, on my way, to the toilet before I sit down and pee. Surely no one can sleep that much.

I’m not quite sure what I expect to find. Tonight, I considered taking a pan and wooden spoon and banging it by his head. I couldn’t find one with the proper resonance, enough to wake one but not so strong as to startle. I also considered getting drunk, but I have a terrible fear of getting a hang over and not being able to sleep it off. This insomnia is a strange creature. I have counted over five million sheep. And so I sit, looking at Cosmo, fingering through the steamy pages to see if there is anything worth learning.

I would call someone but I do not want to bother them so late. I am certain they have lives. The entire world closes at eleven pm, and there is reason to believe they wouldn’t understand that I am not in bed, and dreaming, or at least planning on dreaming.

So I make up dreams and write them down. My latest pseudo dream involved being chased deep into the silence of a forest. A waterfall gently spraying mist, the soft sounds of nature. Just as I started to fall under the spell of it all, engine number 21 comes roaring by just in time to save me being captured by bigfoot.

The sky is just starting to lighten. I am drinking coffee now (I do have to work, even without sleep) and sitting at the table. The table is Brazilian, it has a real wood smell, I recently polyurethane and sanded it. I run my fingers over it and remove the crumbs from my toast. I am fearful he will not wake up, that I’ll walk into the bedroom, and I will be forced to bang on the pan and only closed eyes will stare back at me. Stop worrying I think to myself, searching the cupboard again for the pan and wooden spoon.

A sound is heard from the bedroom. Perhaps he is waking in time for sunrise. Now I can relax again, another day, another un-slept night. My friend suggests that it is not all that unusual, that my energy level is just so high, that I no longer need sleep. I protest with my story of the wooden spoon and pan. Just pour cold water on him she says.

I never would, of course, its dangerous to wake a sleeping person. Unless the house was on fire, or a hurricane was happening, and even then, I would try to use some kind of decorum. Only moments ago, I was in a peaceful forest. It occurred to me that if, say, I hadn’t been saved by the sirens, I might be married to Bigfoot. Slaving away, making clothes from deerskin. He leers at me, lusty. He reaches out. I move away: I must wake up now, grab the pot and spoon. Clang them together over and over, hoping that someone will wake and save me before it’s too late.

Never mind its just him.