one aspect of chronic insomnia is
by far most telling with
the almost complete erosion of
the faculty of dreaming -
dreams still exist -
but they become less and less
adjusted / informed by
a first-person type of narration -
they actually become dislodged
from an order of any sort of
narrative -
if dreams are merely hallucinations
experience in the safety of sleep,
for dreams are just that:
hallucinations in the safety of sleep...
the "sober" speech of
acid junkies in the land
of nod...
yet there's another aspect
of chronic insomnia -
and this is beside a need to
invoke sudden alcohol withdraw -
alcohol withdraw is more
associated with the digestive system than
other biological systems of
irritated nerves from this most,
pleasant sedative...
alcohol withdraw is peppered
with the inability to find a desire for
food...
the onset of fasting and,
by this time, nearing being awake for
a solid 24 hours...
cold sweats...
a lack of sleep produces
this outbursts of cold sweats...
but unlike the sweat ascribed to
a feverish body...
you're not exactly sweating as such...
you're shivering...
hence why the cold sweats
cool your body,
by an intimidation of sponatenous
shivers... probably akin to
a woman experiencing a multiple ******...
when a woman is having
a multiple ******,
she shivers, shakes,
like a pseudo-epileptic...
but the fact that i've
spent the past 24 hours awake will
always translate into an erosion of
a "need" to dream...
and i much prefer the grave
of the void of nox to some
flamboyancy of a theme park where:
i have to be entertained because
my life is so, ******* dull...
my life? simple -
i find looking at inanimate objects
with the same fascination as a cat...
they're not moving,
yet compose the must animate of objects:
earth.
ah, the cold sweats can
be painful for a bit,
and that's really extending
into a descriptive territory that's
excessive depicted as "painful".
if i can't trust my thoughts
sometimes, why would i suddenly throw
myself blindly before the carriage of dreams,
and become an acid ****** in sleep?
as shakespeare's hamlet could
be replied with, concerning
i could be bounded in a nutshell,
and count myself a king of infinite space,
were it not that i have bad dreams;
chronic insomnia erodes dreams -
and by the erosion of dream -
the king of infinite space resides in
the vacuous void,
riddled with deep marine ghosts
pulverising any attempt to make court
with the eye of polyphemus -
the eye that knows no iris -
by mere pupil, and a paper-thin
rim of sclera,
the death read depth
of what's to become
of life.