Fucking morning, fucking mockingbirds, my stupid neighbors with their jug-band bass lines playing all thumpy and loud. What are they listening to, these white people in their late 20’s or early 30’s who appear to have a college education. Why does their music sound exactly like what would come out of as late model Dodge Ram pickup truck with spinners on the wheels and a cartoon of Calvin pissing on the logo of some Mexican soccer team on the tinted windows.
Why is their fucking dog barking his head off at something in the three spare minutes I have per day to sit at my desk and write. These – this is what is going to get me thrown in jail. Some animal making some noise at 7:30 in the morning. I sit at my desk and eat shit all day, suffer indignity after indignity; I go out to parties and bars and people are pricks to me; I just suck it up. People cut me off in traffic and I don’t flip them off in case they’re some kind of crazy gun-wielding Armenian whose roots in what I can only assume is a goat herding culture run very deep and thus he has to take action on this perceived slight to honor by cutting me off again after I flip him off and waving a gun in my face. Or God forbid he’s black. So I just sit there and eat shit.
But a fucking dog barks, or a mockingbird mocks the nesting call of the grackle outside my window around sunup, and I am ready to murder. When I am awakened from sleep by noise all veneer of civilization is gone. I am ready to kill.
My mother was like this, too. Poor woman; I understand now. A light sleeper in this creaky little house the size of a submarine, with me in a little cell like room not really even moving around, not even really walking, but the creaky boards, the sub flooring set up like the bracing of a guitar so even a soft walk would reverbate the thump thump thump like walking on top of a tympani. Waking up every time the bathroom door closes—you slowly, gingerly close it at the exact right speed so it doesn’t squeak, but when it actually clicks home the door is hollow, just two thin resonant guitar-top-thick planks of wood over air, and the tiny impact of the thing clicking closed made this huge throaty whoooooomp.
Imagine what we could have accomplished if we weren’t light sleepers. Imagine the fights that could have been avoided. The days not ruined—not having to go through an already barely tolerable workday with a certain sting in your eyes, a haze, a feeling of weight and dullness somewhere behind the top of your nose and forehead, back in that weird sinus. A feeling of static, mist.
delicioustacos 
Yea, sleeping is supposed to be this effortless thing most of us can’t even do that right. Exhaustion is this feeling like someone poured a layer of wet cement behind your eyes. Like looking at everything from behind this dense layer of filthy security glass – the kind with a million tiny lacerations and the surface is almost opaque. They make drugs for this, you know.