XI. Somnambulance; a little death, traveling, an edge

In the eighth grade, I almost got sent home from an overnight school trip for sleepwalking. We weren't allowed to leave our rooms at night, and the teachers placed tape over our doors so they'd be able to tell if they'd been opened. I don't know if I ever left the room, but our door was cracked open in the morning. I have never been a peaceful sleeper, and I have never liked going to sleep. Even when resting, my body and mind want to adventure. Where is the line between sleep and waking? I have often found myself afraid to go to sleep. I hang on a cliff's edge with cramping fingers, afraid to let go. Sleep is a freefall. A microdose of death, a moment to relinquish your mind to itself. Who is it that I distrust? Myself, or whoever is there when I leave? When I walk into the kitchen in my sleep, who am I running from?

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