seven am

It sometimes feels like my nights aren't real,

Dedicated as they are to scrolling unchanging social media feeds and refreshing Instagram stories,

Once the clock strikes ten pm.

 

Before I know it,

It's four in the morning.

My eyes are red and burning,

My brain is a hazy sludge and my awareness fell asleep hours ago,

But the empty pit in my stomach tells me I can't sleep yet,

Though it can't explain why.

 

Then it's dawn.

The kookaburra outside my window cackles at my expense.

Facebook looks the same,

My fingers are numb,

The world is waking but I've yet to sleep.

 

Seven am.

I am reminded that

There is nothing new under the sun.