Certain Kind of Stillness

Wandering in and out of sleep, not because I want to but because I have to.
I must do this to myself to know that I am alive, or what I presume to be alive.
There is a certain kind of stillness in my soul that stirs me in it's minor notions and I can't take it.
The pressure is getting to me - the pressures of myself. I feel like I can't get up.
Not anymore, no more, will I force myself to get up, but then I do. I always do.
There is a stream, a stream within me, like I am a valley and there are depths.
I feel the trickle of my brain matter sludge toward the parts of me that want to 
be exposed to a different shapes and lights and different decibles of sound.
I wander in this sleepless state, floating and dirfting, there is a certainty in moving.
But then there is suddenly no where to go, no where to fall and you are at a stand still.
There is a moment that feels like an eternity, that keeps you there. Standing. Still.