Insomnia’s dark ways… didn’t sleep last night, body wandering in its lairs of pain. Read this in Cioran:
“Only sickness gives birth to serious and deep feelings. Whatever is not born out of sickness has only an esthetic value. To be ill means to live, willingly or not, on the heights of despair. But such heights presuppose deep chasms, fearful precipices—to live on the heights means to live near the abyss. One must fall in order to reach the heights.”
Not sure if I reached any heights, but I did not fall into sleep, either. Maybe I’m in that limbo in-between life and death, awaiting my own caustic ironies to take flight into laughter instead.
Either way, hope everyone else is in a good humor. I’ll try to rest again, soon. Don’t you love that word “soon”, a cross between near and not too far away, time’s vector where nothing avails nothing, but one measures each moment in pain and suffering rather than thought or abstraction. There is no teleology in suffering, only the endless insomnia of existence itself; unyielding and merciless. Unable to die one suffers this long illness in the shadows of the abyss rather than in its dark core. Cioran says: “All my life, I have lived with the feeling that I have been kept from my true place. If the expression “metaphysical exile” had no meaning, my existence alone would afford it one.” I feel at the moment that I’m exiled from the realm of dreams, sleepless nights in this cave world of reality I seem to wander through the torments and sorrows of dreamland’s alcove or mirrored sister where the natives are wide awake in their own chosen and solitary hells. Sleep is that longed for paradise for the insomniac who dreams wide awake in this eternal realm of death.