I am becoming your chronic insomnia – enchanting and deluding, neither near nor far, like a lofty fantasy, the longing to uncast a spell – cracking the code of peace when it should prevail where your head locates its final retreat for the day. Unleashing howling hounds of guilt, suspicion, love, hate, and repentance in your small-sized stagnant lake of thoughts towering that head of yours. They would consume all remnants of hope for a long restful blink of an eye, universalize your fear and turn you into a haunted unfound castle. Your very appetite would be masticated by invisible hooded forces of disorder. A headful of distressing memories, often drunk away with sheer succumbness to the lies your mind constantly play. An unending lack of tranquility is your nightly punishment. Amongst all the sleeping souls in the house, on the building, and across the neighborhood, you shall solely remain sleepless, restless and hungry for internal shelter. A safe spot inside of you where you shall make peace with so that it would no longer threaten the life it belongs to inside of you. Insomniac you are; a sweet retaliation to crown years of wandering unaccompanied, except only by faith, in the darkest of roads, loathing your unthinking prejudice.