Suddenly a humungous bout of claustrophobia seized me as the black sky raced down to enclose my body and became an electricity-conducting blanket. Small sparks sprinkled across the spectrum of my vision as I came out of a semi-lucid REM state (REM being the dream stage of sleep which is neither restorative, nor deep). I sighed my war cry and turned over to receive more nonsatisfaction...
The war is between me and me (or my concrete conscience and the abstract streaming thought player that never stops). When I want to be consciously aware of my surroundings, the battlefield is empty, both side's troops distracted by their respective distractions. But infallibly, once the entertainment finishes, both sides take the battlefield again.
The entertainment seems to start at around 8 in the morning and end around 11 at night.
My insomnia is a psychological parasite. But only I can control it, which makes everything worse, because it's impossible to control something that is only tamed after one reaches beyond the limits of control.
My bed is antimatter for all the good it has ever done me.
Bed(o) + Me (p)→Aspirations (ts) + Plans (ts)
(o = object, p = person, ts = thought solution)
The plans and aspirations that immediately start after I contact my bed become abstract and turn into plays, at which point lucidity begins to fail. The plays, however, don't stop; they take over and in a dreamy state not near sleep but not quite awake results. Two to three hours later the plays abruptly end, throwing me into complete lucid wakefulness which may yield to light REM sleep for an hour or two, but never more.
The tiredness is intense and oppressive. It veils my life like the smoke of a heavy forest fire does to the vision of a clueless hiker. It discombobulates my focus. It eats at me when I stand and manifests itself in every limp muscle during longdistance walks.
Once I danced an improvisational tango on wet grass with bare feet and flailing limbs and boisterous laughter. The memory is beautiful. The memory is the energy.
