Dual
RIP Karl 1991-2014
I lay, deep in yet another night. Sleepless. Nothing sets this night apart; nothing gives it the slightest originality. Spectacularly standard.
The mind tries to be clear, but in the absence of external stimuli, switching on autopilot becomes more and more difficult. In the darkness of the early
morning, mind and body become whole again.
Intensely uncomfortable. Desirous of sleep so that it will all melt away into the unconscious; automatic once more. The sweet release of a silent mind is all too elusive. This is the curse of the insomniac.
The wandering mind is naturally reflective. On these long, endless nights, mine is drawn back to the three headed gorgon; to the time when I was frozen in Medusa's glare.
When the gorgon casts its icy cold gaze upon you, it's as if time itself stops. A moment becomes an hour and a day becomes a month. A single option is before you, encased in stone: Wait.
The time passes, of course, but it draws out your very vitality with it. When the monster finally looks away, you feel as if eons have been stolen from you, but the world is aware only of an instant.
These nights, my thoughts turn to that three headed gorgon and its lair; the eons I spent frozen there. It is in these times that I feel the one emotion left to me after all that has passed: Anger. I feel! What could this anger mean?
Could there be hope for me? Could I recover all that I've lost; regain my lifeforce? Or is this single, solitary emotion a mere gravestone?
What to do with anger? I don't know. Thus it festers night after sleepless night.
I am unsure: Is this insomnia a curse or a blessing? How else would I know I'm alive?
The mind tries to be clear, but in the absence of external stimuli, switching on autopilot becomes more and more difficult. In the darkness of the early
morning, mind and body become whole again.
Intensely uncomfortable. Desirous of sleep so that it will all melt away into the unconscious; automatic once more. The sweet release of a silent mind is all too elusive. This is the curse of the insomniac.
The wandering mind is naturally reflective. On these long, endless nights, mine is drawn back to the three headed gorgon; to the time when I was frozen in Medusa's glare.
When the gorgon casts its icy cold gaze upon you, it's as if time itself stops. A moment becomes an hour and a day becomes a month. A single option is before you, encased in stone: Wait.
The time passes, of course, but it draws out your very vitality with it. When the monster finally looks away, you feel as if eons have been stolen from you, but the world is aware only of an instant.
These nights, my thoughts turn to that three headed gorgon and its lair; the eons I spent frozen there. It is in these times that I feel the one emotion left to me after all that has passed: Anger. I feel! What could this anger mean?
Could there be hope for me? Could I recover all that I've lost; regain my lifeforce? Or is this single, solitary emotion a mere gravestone?
What to do with anger? I don't know. Thus it festers night after sleepless night.
I am unsure: Is this insomnia a curse or a blessing? How else would I know I'm alive?
