More poems by Imaginary_Muffin

The Lights of Alexandria

The breeze of the unsteady fan and the silent breeze from outside the half-open glass door next to me combined and caressed my hair, slightly moving it around, making it glide every which way over my skin. The lights of Alexandria laid on my bed unmoving. The harmony of beeping and screeching of the constant cars 11 stories below was enough to keep me awake through the thickening night. The soft light glistened lightly off my painted toes that were in my view, and when I looked at the bed posts, I was reminded that the scene was quite picture-worthy. The shadows on the wall didn't change; didn't move as I watched them, waiting for sleep to sweep over me and triumphantly carry me off. The yellow-tinted shadows on the ceiling behind the unsteady fan occasionally moved, and that entertained me next to the commotion below which oddly began to soothe me. Just outside the doors sparkled specks of light on the dark trees and buildings. I tried to relax my tensed body as I took in the sight of the close building opposite ours over the far away crowded streets so alive and awake.
I know I should sleep... I always know what I SHOULD do. I enjoy the feeling of being awake while others sleep, although, this case was different this time because outside of this quiet, sleeping apartment was a loud, moving, and very much awake world. I never am the only one awake, it only seems that way, of course. But that is enough for me. I never mind missing sleep. I am not one to plan things out before jumping into them in general, usually, but that is beside the point.
So in the room I sat, trying to decide if I should really try for sleep again or watch the live, Egyptian world while I could like this - under these circumstances which I knew might never come again. The smell of my shampoo drifted over my head and into my face as I inhaled slowly. That pleased me. As I scrawled out the so-called "meaningful" words across the waiting paper, I tried to make sense of my thoughts. I wouldn't want to miss anything in there, would I? And before I try for sleep once again, I write: I wonder why they call NEW YORK "The city that never sleeps."