Sleeping is not a form of death

Sleeping is not a form of death. It is a form of meditation. I sleep. I dream. I wake up. I wander into reality a little less imbalanced, a little more on my bare feet. My medication helps me sleep. It helps me organize my thoughts. It’s like a housekeeper cleaning my room in a hotel. I fear she might take something important that belongs to me. So I hide everything of symbolic value: my race, my religion, my jewelry. I let her sweep and make the bed I lie in again and again. This is where I was raped. I fear the world did not liberate me, but the word did. Rape. I was raped and they took everything valuable: my country, my mind. Now I can’t sleep without this medication that allows me to replay the story of my life, like watching muted music videos on YouTube. I am as hollow as an empty plane and afraid I can’t move fast enough away from him, away from me.