You're at the top of my lungs

It's late, 4a.m. to be exact, but I cannot sleep. I roll over in bed, so that I am facing the window that I have left open. The warm night air blows in and sweeps across my face. I close my eyes, and wait for sleep to consume me. Hours seems to pass as I lay in the dark, the wind playing with my hair, willing myself to sleep. It seems to whisper to me, calling out promises of summer and warmth and sleep. Glorious, glorious sleep.

I open my eyes, and then I glance at the alarm clock that is placed beside my bed. The red numbers stare down at me. 4:03. How pitiful.

I know that this can't be healthy, considering I am a teenager who needs her sleep. But then again, I come late to half my health classes, so I am not one to talk. Maybe next time I'll pay attention instead of carving rude messages into my desk with a ruler.

I let out a sigh of frustration. Above my bed is a Beatles poster. It's their Abbey Road album cover, the one where Paul isn't wearing any shoes. I like to just lay in bed sometimes, and wonder why John could have let himself look so homeless, and why I like George's jeans so much. I find nothing wrong with Ringo, although I doubt he'd take my critisim seriously anyway. He seems like he'd be the most laidback of everyone. Besides, if I ever got the chance to meet him, I wouldn't get the chance to talk to him anyway because I would have feinted immediatly after spotting him.

I roll over so that I am facing the wall opposite my window. It is covered with posters, the more popular ones being of bands like Fall Out Boy and The Beatles. A few magazine cutting litter the walls, mostly from Alternative Press, but they are more difficult to make out in the dark. They aren't any help to me. I am still just as awake as I was earlier today when I was at school, listening to teachers drone on about things that I did not need to know; things like ultimate frisbee and voltage.

My heart still hurts.

As a last resort, I move so that I am laying on my stomach with my head hanging over the side of the bed. I feel the blood rush to my head as I search under my bed, but I ignore it. I find what I am looking for, and sit cross legged on my bed, pulling out an old, battered shoebox.

I reach over and then I turn on the lamp that sits on my night stand. The rooms is engulfed with light, and it makes my head spin. I squint until I can see, squeezing my eyes shut again every few seconds. I wonder how long I have until my father storms in, demanding I turn off the light and go back to sleep. I decide that it's worth it anyway.

Inside are pictures of my old friends and I. I look through them, smiling at our faces and laughing silently at old memories. Now, they seem almost too good to be true. I have not seen any of them since I started high school. My friends and I promised each other that we would all stay in touch, visit each other, e-mail each other.

Neither my old friends nor I did any of these things. My old friends and I did not even attempt them.