goodnights and sweet dreams

Maybe it’s the cold wind of the yuletide night. Maybe it’s the anticipating bugs of last season. Or maybe it’s the ecstatic neurons of the body turning all focal points of normal intuitive reasoning go berserk.

Actually, I do not know what I am referring about. The “it” is incomprehensible, ungraspable, beyond genius-level apperception. The enigma is as mystifying as to how the pyramids of Egypt were built. Yes, even though deep within the darkest recesses of my mentality I think I know what the reason is, yet I strongly anchor in my mindset that I do not exactly know the reason why I cannot sleep properly for the past few nights. To set it all straight, I do not want to know the basis of this disturbing psychology. I am playing dumb; playing dead, most probably. Call this the most mundane way of escapist strategy but I don’t mind. I do what I prefer to do.

Because acknowledging “it” means succumbing into the harshness of reality, I despise the idea of stating the core of this self-imposed trouble. Even in the midst of the clichéd cheery period of the year, I purposely veil upon me a huge sheet of despondency and abhorrence to anything good. And the more I alienate myself from positive goody-goody charges of the world, the more pressing they are in barging into my life, and this whole concept of rejecting and intercepting makes my sleeping point in each night diminish its time length.

I cannot sleep properly. I make for myself insomnia. And wait, even this blog entry is a product of this newfound disease.

It has been in my rule book that before I go to sleep, I relay messages to all people who care to receive, read, and throw it in their cerebral trashcan every night. But considering that I now have this “disease of wide eyes” during 12 midnight and so on, I still send those absurd and sometimes politically correct messages to avoid any new dark rumors about me. Basically, my recent goodnights are all fraud.

It is a good thing, though, that there some owls of whom I can talk to in those clumsily conjured nocturnal hours. And as if serendipity adds more humor to what I have been experiencing, the owl of whom I have now a regular chat in every dawn coincidentally had been on the same bout of restlessness, too. It is funny, really.

But the bad thing is the owl has something to do with the worm; the worm of insomnia that ails my life.

I am sorry, owl, it's mainly caused by the worm.

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