I don’t sleep anymore. I weaned myself off it quite awhile ago, and now I don’t need to anymore. It started about two years ago. I was getting fed up with how little I got done, and I blamed it on how much I slept. I used to be a borderline narcoleptic, and I hadn’t found a medicine that worked. "So," I proclaimed, "I’ll cure myself."
    I made a schedule. Each month I would cut off one hour of sleep. Generally the first week of the month was a trifle difficult, but by the end of the month I would become fully adjusted. And soon, I stopped sleeping.
    It was wonderful, at first. People don’t realize how much you can accomplish with those extra hours. Most people give up a third of their day to sleep, and are satisfied with. Sleep is a drug, and I’ve kicked my addiction. I cleaned up my house, put everything away, swept, vacuumed, all at night when most people would be lying inert, useless. This left me free to spend my day however I saw fit. My life was vastly improved. I still had work, but that took only a few hours of my day. I saw movies, took walks, and went to museums. However, I was not satisfied with this. I had cut down on sleep to accomplish things, and, as much as I enjoyed my leisure, I needed something more.
    And so, I began to write. I wrote many things. I wrote fiction, essays, criticism, nothing was off-limits to me. Furthermore, I was successful. I was pleased with everything I wrote and most of it got published.
    My friends were curious as to how I’d turned my life around. They said they were eager to do whatever it was that I had done. Anything to be that successful, they said. However, when I described my methods to them, they refused to believe me. Only one of them tried my method, and he quit after a few weeks. It seems that many people lack the self-control needed for my regimen.
    Still, I pressed on. I decided to branch out. In addition to writing, I began to paint. Soon I had plans to direct a movie. The movie ended up in development hell and never got made, but my paintings were well received and my writing continued to get published.
    For awhile, everything was going well. Then, it all fell apart. Painting was the first thing to go. It stopped as abruptly as it had started. Then, I gradually stopped writing. At first it was only a reduced work load, but soon I was only writing occasionally, and then, not at all. Looking back on that period I’ve realized what went wrong. I ran out of ideas. I had written and painted everything I could without repeating myself. My creative drive was spent, my inspiration dried up.
    I had quit my job earlier because I hadn’t needed it. I still didn’t need a job and couldn’t motivate myself to get a new one. I was set for life and felt no reason to be doing more menial labor, even if it was the only way to occupy myself. And so I found myself, for the first time in ages, with nothing to do. I became a ghost in my own apartment. I walked through the halls, staring blankly, doing nothing. The days were interminable, and, since I didn’t sleep, they all bled into one another. Eventually, the misery became overwhelming and I left.
    I walked through the streets of the city in much the same way I had haunted my apartment. For days on end I walked through the city without doing anything. My condition began to deteriorate. I hadn’t eaten in about a week. My eyes were sunken and my body was exhausted. Still, I could not justify wasting my time sleeping.
    I sat down on a bench in the park. A group of kids was running around and playing near the bench. They were loud and obnoxious. I hated them. One of the kids pointed at me and shouted, "Look! A junkie!" The kids all circled around the bench. They were chanting and jumping around. It was demonic. I got up and lashed out at one of the kids, but I overexerted myself, and fell to the ground. The kids ran away.
    Soon, however, one of the kids returned. A police officer was walking with him. I cursed. "Yes sir. That’s him," the kid said, pointing at me. The policeman walked me to his car, and took me to jail. The trial was short; I was in no condition to defend myself, and didn’t have much of a case anyway.
    So here I am, in prison, recording my experience. It turns out I have one more story to write. I’ve found I can’t sleep now even when I try. The other inmates sleep as much as they can. I envy them, the escape must be nice. Still, I know that it’s not for me. I’ve got better things to be doing with my time.