Insomnia

Insomnia of the worst kind. Staring at the high grainy white ceiling with bags under the sleepless eyes. Sitting up and staring at a bleakly lit profile in the larger than life adjoining mirror. Thinking about the dichotomies of life - both professional and personal, of whether to stay warm and let the beads of sweat trickle down over the tiny black hairs on the legs, like transparent caterpillars in transhumance, or listen to the whirr of the invisible little fan and watch the blinds of the window move themselves in perfect rhythm, as if played by the ghost of some dead Rasta musician's veiny dark hand.

Don't follow your dreams. OK fine. Do it, but make sure you have enough money before you jump onto the back of the unicorn. They'll tell you you are cool, that you are just about the second person they know after that skinny dark kid with those big eyes and floppy hair from Andaman who decided to be a professional snorkeler, to follow their dreams and all that crap, but they aren't here now to sing you lullabies as you listen to the rumbling of your stomach echo off your empty life. I hope the snorkeler at least is still sinking.

Holy shit. Didn't Edward Norton's Jack have insomnia which led him to create Fight Club? I don't like where this is going. Great, now insomnia coupled with paranoia. What would the pacifist in me say? I don't have an anarchist in me. Or do I? Maybe it's been dormant all these years so as to use its most potent weapon - the element of surprise. Maybe atheists don't get the little versions of themselves as the angel and devil having the cute little stand-off with their oh-so-British halos and tridents. All they get is an uber-ugly UFC fight between the pacifist and the anarchist versions. And boy, do I know who to bet on in that fight?