Insomnia is not fun.
Minutes ago, I was tossing and turning in bed, evaluating various sleeping positions, all of which did not include sheets because the air around was a simmering furnace. After clumsily turning my blankets into bowlines and figure eights, I gave up and snatched the nearest book off the desk. Haikus.
“This stupid world—
skinny mosquitoes, skinny fleas,
Issa, you are not helping.
The insomnia that infrequently haunts me is of the “wandering mind” species. My brain transforms into a neurological beacon, attracting what-ifs, memories, fantasies, fears, what have you. There was a time when I thought that my own thoughts were out to usurp my circadian rhythm:
During the early bouts of restlessness, the science behind insomnia was nonexistent to me. I came up with a theory that this mysterious forced acted when I had worked too hard on a particular day and all of the suppressed thoughts were tired of being shoved into dreamland, so they rebelled and kept me awake in the dark. (An even earlier version of this was that the dream fairy would forget to administer a dream to me and I would be left in the depths of my own thoughts, god forbid).
The only perk to this is when I sneak downstairs, peer out the front door, and observe the hushed street lamps and conversing shadows of a sprawling night. Sometimes the air is so still that I forget what the hum of rubber on asphalt sounds like.
selections for the wee-hours edition of link dumps:
- goggling over this
- musical translations are fascinating
- something for future reference
- wtnv + opera?? (“high pitched wailing and combustion engines”)
- this entire series on sleep and another article from the New Yorker