In the hour of our death there is insomnia


Earlier today I forgot the word ‘Insomnia’. I also forgot the word ‘Dementia’, because this is what chronic insomnia does to you. It takes away comprehension, sense, comfort, memory and it ruins them, slowly, inexorably over months, somtimes years. Then it lazily reassembles the pieces it cares to relocate. And it leaves you as a polluted byproduct.

The night is always central when you have chronic insomnia. It is all you are in fact and in life. Insomnia there all day long. It is the hour before your execution prolonged and repeating. It is the avalanche about to engulf your school playground when you are unable to run any more. You stop being human and you become a simple function of longing. Sometimes for sleep, sometimes for death, sometimes for transportation in dreams to any other state.

Everything about your body aches like a spirit broken by the drowning of a loved one in a far away, deep polluted sea. Your eyes dry out and become the broken windows into the burnt landscape of your soul. You know nothing for certain. Everything shifts and wanders.

You play music to keep track of time because one or two times before time got away and left you writhing about, untethered and torn. But the melody is split away from any harmony and the rhythm elongated into a single beat. Because, you see, you do sleep, sometimes for seconds at a time.

Micro-sleeps come and go and all you know your body moved as you jerk awake and there you are again: 2:42am.