Marina Benjamin’s Insomnia, which deals with insomnia from literature to mythology, from psychology to popular culture, is a tasting section for all those night birds.
Sometimes a click comes from your bedside table. Maybe a strange draft will goose bumps on your neck and your skin will shudder, maybe you’ll hear a gentle caress on the inside of your arm, from wrist to elbow, like a feather wandering. An unexpected staggering that lasted only in the blink of an eye, the feeling of falling down one after the other, and that was nice. You are welcome too.
If we insist on defining something by looking at what it deprives us of, how can we comprehend the essence of what is lost when this thing manifests itself? What if there’s something he gains with his being? That’s the issue of insomnia.
If I stand up at night, the world turns into a different tone. The darker, the closer I am, and the more I pay attention to the darkness, the different consistencies. I can’t skip the night that goes from green to black when the dense, stunning darkness and moisture, filled with soft electricity like air, shrouded gently in the middle of the night.
Semi-shadow, as the dawn of the arrival of the dawning noticeably displaced by the sensation of the day you’ll be more sensitive to the threshold of sensation, you know that the eye doctor to put a soft-focus lens in your eyes around the field of vision is what you want to answer or something like that. I came to the conclusion that there are all kinds of darkness that you can remove, and that one can learn to read and write at night.
At the other end of the calm darkness of my sleepless life, I am a sluggish, exhausted ghost who takes numb steps between the rooms, and there is nothing between. I read for an hour, then I grab a cup of tea and sit with my dog. I envy my dog’s animalistic dexterity to sleep. However, just a few minutes ago, he lay on the couch, but after a while his legs spread like bagpipes and my tiny dog falls asleep while his tiny warm body goes up and down. If I were to move, he would open his eyes, but he would not fear; She looks at me by lifting her brown wet eyes and wants to know if the world is standing as she left.
In the morning of such nights, I would leave evidence waiting to be found and remembered all around: a pair of high-heeled shoes thrown into the air like a pair of high-heeled shoes, my reading glasses standing on one side of the chairs, my book left open in one of the chairs, the kitchen countertops crumbs.
On the one hand, while tying the belt of my dressing gown, I stand in the hall where the lifeless light slowly spreads. I’m trying to use clues to re-envision how night passes, but I haven’t been able to make sense yet. It starts with this scene that resembles a crime scene in the morning. The only missing figure is the outlined body figure; standing there is awake, while non-body should lie in bed.
There are nights lit by moonlight, nights with sharp brightness. In times when everything feels stronger, I get rid of it thoroughly, and I am in the morning and my mind does not slow down. I go down the stairs, creaking, and with an eager curiosity, I turn on my computer and scour disaster reports about where the sunlight takes over the reign. What dead end? Exploding bombs, footage of murdered people, floods, fires, terrorist ambushes.
Usual catastrophes. Until my hand trembles, I will sit down in the annoying news, while on the one hand I swear and try to control my feelings. I feel the night restrains me because I believe that the secret of our beautiful being can somehow be encountered in the darkness of the night. I’m looking for little value, intuitive power so I can carry the night façade in the morning.
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