A few sleepless nights ago I witnessed a perfect crime. The last nocturnal insects were mincing soundly up the walls to take their fallback positions, the first morning birds practising games to the detriment of being on their guard. Then silence. Poor feathered things! The creepy-crawlies certainly know what makes good early breakfast.. You need to abstain from sleep for more than one night to understand that it's just a game they play, a sort of amusement for the nighthawks. The acting crew come back every night to stage their little show.. The thing is that I don't really abstain. It's just that my brain doesn't seem to be able to recall how to switch between modes. It won't ahem at the eyelids to shut the hell up. Three to five hours of sleep a night? At best? Are you kidding me? Only a month ago I was the official record holder in the unofficial Olympic discipline of sleeping one's ass off! And lately even the beer strategy, quite helpful on those very few occasions when I needed assistance in being put to sleep, has failed to take effect.. My last resort. What's left? The DIY tool box with a huge hammer inside. Hmmm.. This will surely knock me out, but I suck at DIY. Need assistance. Volunteers?
Just like any other irregularity, this must be a result of historical changes. A formal shift in the quality of certain components of this complex biological system I constitute. But can a thing which has passed unnoticed really cause insomnia this harsh in nature? Impossible to establish, really. What can be demonstrated at this point are the particulars of this 24/7 stand-by mode I can't switch to any other. Burning any after-midnight oil awakes ravenous hunger, one that won't go away just to let me draw nearer to the off mode. Also, no sleep = constant thinking. This inevitably leads to identifying connections and drawing conclusions which go vague unless put down. Anything can make them go away unattended: untimely arrival of the slumber I long for, break of dawn, or more tidbits of my alleged wit and sophistication elbowing their way ahead of the bashful pioneers. This aggravating necessity to record impressions is just enough to make me turn on the light. A beginning of any good story is an end of something you need to give up for its sake. In this case, my dream of getting at least some sleep at a relatively civilized hour. Biologically speaking, light averts the possibility of dropping off. Mathematically speaking, add the upright position needed to get down to writing and you get an equation whose result can be calculated without pen and paper. I save these for more noble purposess, like the one I left those messy sheets for in the first place - immortalizing and romanticizing reality. Am I hopeless, romantic or both, preceded by an indefinite article? Indefinite, how funny. This last option would probably make me look least pathetic in the eyes of others. But I refuse to consider now. I have a looooong sleepless night for that.
Just like any other irregularity, this must be a result of historical changes. A formal shift in the quality of certain components of this complex biological system I constitute. But can a thing which has passed unnoticed really cause insomnia this harsh in nature? Impossible to establish, really. What can be demonstrated at this point are the particulars of this 24/7 stand-by mode I can't switch to any other. Burning any after-midnight oil awakes ravenous hunger, one that won't go away just to let me draw nearer to the off mode. Also, no sleep = constant thinking. This inevitably leads to identifying connections and drawing conclusions which go vague unless put down. Anything can make them go away unattended: untimely arrival of the slumber I long for, break of dawn, or more tidbits of my alleged wit and sophistication elbowing their way ahead of the bashful pioneers. This aggravating necessity to record impressions is just enough to make me turn on the light. A beginning of any good story is an end of something you need to give up for its sake. In this case, my dream of getting at least some sleep at a relatively civilized hour. Biologically speaking, light averts the possibility of dropping off. Mathematically speaking, add the upright position needed to get down to writing and you get an equation whose result can be calculated without pen and paper. I save these for more noble purposess, like the one I left those messy sheets for in the first place - immortalizing and romanticizing reality. Am I hopeless, romantic or both, preceded by an indefinite article? Indefinite, how funny. This last option would probably make me look least pathetic in the eyes of others. But I refuse to consider now. I have a looooong sleepless night for that.
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