Insomnia again. Almost the whole night, unable to sleep, unable to rest. Plagued by self-generated anxieties.
Every few minutes I close my eyes and wish once again that sleep would come. In the darkness of my mind there are distorted apparitions jumping from all sides, both in silence and with silent screams. Rising up out of the miasma of would-be dreams. Dire suspicions moving eerily with darkness, in a tunnel barely lit by the glow of cognizance. As soon as my mind tries to focus on any one of them, and shed the light of mind, they disappear, back into the gloom. Demons that seem trapped on the periphery of the light of wakefulness, awaiting there to enter my next nightmare. Phantasms of fear and fatigue. The witches of exhaustion.
Vile things that used to reside under my childhood bed, or out in the hallway of my parents house, have now taken up inhabitance inside my twilit wit.
For my wife's part she decided to wash every pot and pan in the apartment upon her arising from sleep. She orchestrated an entire section of home cymbals and crashes. Each crescendo outdoing the last. She has perhaps missed her calling as a subway drummer, augmenting the plastic drums of urban poverty with a home-spun percussion section as bright and lively as any high-school marching band. One after the other, sometimes in unison... a crash, a ride and a hi-hat. Again a crash, a ride and a hi-hat. All emanating from the natural echo chamber which is our sink. I only wish I had the energy to spring out of bed and record this budding talent. To capture the early years of her career. For posterity.
But all it took to end her early morning recording career was a few plaintive words from me:
Baby... please...., please....
"Whether tempter sent, or tempest tossed thee here ashore"...
"... his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming"
- E. A. Poe