clinging to the wreckage

A day of communication, of lunch, of longing, of love and lust. A day to shatter the stagnant misery that had flooded recent times and then remained, still and untreated, immovable. A yawning dawn has broken through, red and full of promise. A dawn that you bring to the earth. And so, sober for a change, I lie in bed and read Kerouac whilst the British Blues, Artemis and Demeter, help to keep the blues at bay. Unsure if it is hot or cold I leave the all night heating set to come on downstairs whilst upstairs I lie next to an open window. Tired and worn from the pressures of last week I seem unable to decide things. Never the less, I feel somewhat hopeful that a decent sleep will be mine tonight... a deep sleep containing a dream in which you smile at me and assure me that you are mine.

Each night I lie awake in bed and stare at the walls. Falling asleep, initially, is usually not a problem, the problem lies in waking up at 3am and then being unable to return to sleep. Now I sit at my desk with reality flickering in and out of crashes. Sounds like static flash through my mind and my eyes blacken in momentary losses of vision. This is the ordinary state of the insomniac. Delving into a little modern research on insomnia the warning is ‘insomnia equals death.’ What can one do? I lie awake and await death… but it seems my mind is too active even for that. I lie awake and contemplate all the areas in which I cannot compete. I wonder how many people and how many animals are suffering terribly around the world whilst I lie in my bed and think that insomnia is a terrible problem. Looking up from my desk I see people pass by as if they are merely ghostly images. The most corporal part of them is the attitude that they exude. I reach out to one in longing and desire but