Depreciation

It's one forty-six, and I'm still here.
What pushed me to this place? Memory, I suppose. Primal and urgent,
within a cycle of misery I've found light in these late nights,
these pockets of time going cheap, a little extra for little cost
- My health, I suppose, to number one, but what's it worth to me?
Already, the white is freckled with shadows.
Already, in every frame before me, a phantom face, the same, flicks and fades,
and though the chemicals in my veins push sleep into the fore of my mind,
I force my eyes open, my focus on something stimulating.
Because, while once this wakefulness was unwilling,
it's a comfort now to suffer.
The creeping of sleep is sure to dampen the thoughts that race through my skull,
the knowledge I've garnered spreading out, brain-kibble,
leeching into my consciousness like the roots of a tumour
tangling in the soil, twisting and suffocating the active thoughts,
leaving me panicked,
tearing my hair out,
mashing my fists into my eyes,
trying to maintain some kind of order,
trying to keep some kind of control,
trying to reclaim the overborn soil.

These motives aren't enough
to drive me to this deprivation.
What really drew me forward to this course is a question;
What, exactly, is the point?

Why sleep? Why sleep when I'll only be rested for another day of misery?
Why hurry the clocks forward to a point of no return? Why not stay?
Why not indeed.
And stay I will.
Because I'm going nowhere.

I'm nowhere now. Nowhere at all.
There aren't the words to frame the thoughts or sights. But the situation can be framed.
If I survive the night, I'll never sleep again.