An attempt at fiction

So I'm attempting fiction. We'll see how this goes. This story will probably continue through many posts.

I am not sleeping again. The thought is a pervasive one. Clinging to my consciousness with the tenacity of a remora. It also bears no mention, as one were to only look at the sallow skin and turbulent eyes to realize that the world of dreams and fantasy has long since escaped my tenuous grasp. Who am I? That's not really important. But then again nothing is really important. I'd rather refrain from a pseudo-philisophical tangent so I'll continue if you'd let me. I live in a city, what city doesn't matter. It's a big one, full of tall buildings that scratch at the sky as if a virtual representation of humanity trying to tackle God. Why, you probably wonder at this point why I'm crazy. If you were sleeping as little as I was then you probably would be in the same state as I now would you? Anyway, I will begin my story now.

We start on a day completely unremarkable from the next, or the one that preceded it. I am sitting in a room. A room known as the living room in common society, and applicable in more ways then most with me. Since I never sleep I never make it to my "bedroom" and instead spend the nights meandering about my shitty apartment in the attempts to drown my body with exercise to the point of sleep. But alas, this has yet to happen. Why can't I sleep you might ask? That's not important. Much of this story is not important, but at the same time it is of much importance. Confused yet? I certainly am. Hopefully with time things will become clearer, more distinct, and I can find some usefulness for this static complacency.

(This is just the first couple paragraphs, an intro if you will, to a topic I came up with a few years back about a man who can't sleep and the effects on his psyche. I thought it would be an interesting short story at least and I intend on working on for as long as I can.)