Sleep deprivation is a bitch. When the stress piles up and your plate is much too full, the rejuvenating hours dwindle. Once refreshing dips in somnolent lakes become naught more than pitiful splashing through drowsy puddles. Poetics aside, Insomnia's a bitch.
It's been a problem since before my first memorable moments (at least I assume it has). One would think that I would have developed some sort of coping mechanism. Short of straight out substance abuse, I have not found a reliable method of lulling myself to sleep. Weeks of practicing near-perfect sleep hygiene left me in the same state as sleeping pills and alcohol. Herbal remedies are about as useful as wishful thinking. In short, I am pretty sure I'm unequivocally fucked.
At times like these (and believe me when I tell you, friends, there are plenty of them), I tend to write. Instead of succumbing to the haze brought on by lack of sleep, I put on a pot of coffee, smoke too many cigarettes and get to work. My best ideas are birthed by Insomnia's solitude. My shining moments climb from the proverbial primordial ooze that is mental exhaustion. My inability to sleep is, indeed, a double-edged sword.
Will I always be forced to make the choice between a night of sleep or a night of prose? I haven't the slightest. What I do know, though, is this: The more I try, the harder I fail.
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