Insomnia

Sometimes, I take forever to go to sleep.

It’s not that I don’t want to; far from it. I only shut my book (well, my tablet cover), at around 11:30, and by that time, I’m more than ready to sink into the blissful oblivion of my dreams. Unfortunately, my mind generally has other plans. Instead of falling asleep as most humans are prone to doing, I instead stay awake no matter how desperate I am to surrender consciousness to my pillow. It can’t be due to copious consumption of coffee or red bull; the only drink I have on a regular basis is tea, and that too in the early evening. I’m never really bothered by jet lag, and in any case, it’s hardly realistic to imagine that I’m jet lagged every day.  No, my inability to fall asleep quickly is undoubtedly the product of a conspiracy far more nefarious than anything I could express with mere words.

Pragmatically speaking, this isn’t really a problem. I sleep extraordinarily deeply, so when roused from my slumber, I’m a zombie for the next twenty minutes (much to the angst of my mother), but after that, I’m more or less functional for the rest of the day. So while it would be nice to be able to sleep that extra hour and a half or so, empirical evidence shows that it’s not really necessary. I’m opposed to that hour and a half of non-sleep not on those terms, but simply on the fact that those 90 minutes are pure torture.

The problem is that in order to sleep, my mind needs to shut down, and it just doesn’t like doing that. As I lay my head down on the pillow, it’s churning so quickly that I can’t do anything but lie there hopelessly and hope it decides to calm down soon enough. Of course, in the spirit of Murphy’s law, this never happens so instead, I ponder that which really has no need to be pondered. All the random thoughts and terrible puns which I like to think I’m famous for are generated during this period. It’s also the time where I cringe at all the stupid things I did during the day, promise myself that I’ll finally get rid of all the unnecessary crap on my computer tomorrow (which, needless to say, is a pointless endeavour) and think of brilliant ideas for blog posts which are promptly forgotten.

Despite being so absorbed in my thoughts, at this point, I am also incredibly aware of my surroundings. In theory, my bedroom is a good place to sleep. I have a comfortable mattress, an air conditioner and a fan, curtains which block out almost all the ambient light that would otherwise enter through my balcony door, and a room so quiet that you could hear the noise a paper makes as it floats gently to the floors. Unfortunately, having been deprived of my vision by the darkness, my other senses decide to compensate for this rather overenthusiastically. I am so astutely aware of my limbs at this point that no matter what position I assume on my bed, my legs or arms are always in the way. This leads me to furiously toss and turn in a futile attempt to wrestle by blanket into a position where it rests on my body comfortably. After a few seconds, however, the temperature becomes uncomfortable so I am obligated to stick a foot out from under the blanket, which is promptly retracted a moment later. All of this activity obviously makes noise, and while the rustling of fabric generally isn’t considered to be overly annoying, it commands all my attention and forces me to reconsider the very need for a blanket.

As all of this happens, time does what it does best, and passes. Seconds turn into minutes, which stretch into hours, which in turn become, well, more hours. Even my mind is susceptible to the relentless erosion of the ticking of the clock and gradually, slowly, interminably drifts off into the deeper recesses of my consciousness. This is when things start to get really weird. I throw my pillow of the bed, because the idea of keeping my head even slightly above my body is abhorrent. I flip around so that my head is at the foot of my bed and my feet at the head of my bed. I trace random letters and numbers in the air, spelling out an arcane language that Morpheus himself could not gain a foothold in. I whisper words and phrases that present themselves to me in no particular order, as though spirits from the other side have selected me as a conduit to the darkness that pervades the night. This is the time of my waking dreams, where I am aware of my existence and exactly where I am and what it is I am doing, but am not able to rationally think of anything. My subconscious slowly diffuses around my cranium, and asserts its will with a menacing yet unstoppable mercilessness.

As time continues to flow without regard for the desperate pleas that I make to it, my waking dreams finally dissolve into dreams of a more ephemeral nature, and sleep embraces me like an old friend. For the next few hours, I am entirely a servant of its will, but it is a merciful god. It slows my breathing. It rejuvenates me. It tirelessly fends off the tendrils of thought until the morning sun finally filters through my curtain and illuminates the room delicately. Gradually, I wade up through the levels of my dream, wallowing lazily in their safe warmth for as long as I wish, even as the sunlight first stakes its claim on my face. Finally, my consciousness breaks the surface and my eyes open, perceiving nothing for an endless second.

I’m awake.

 

I wish I wasn’t awake.

 

I took far too long to fall asleep last night.

 

Gee, I should write a blog post about that.