Insomnia

|inˈsämnēə|
noun
habitual sleeplessness; inability to sleep.

DERIVATIVES
insomniac |-nēˌak| |1nˈsɑmniˈøk| noun & adjective

ORIGIN early 17th cent.: from Latin, from insomnis ‘sleepless,’ from in- (expressing negation) + somnus ‘sleep.’


Knowing this does not make sleep come any easier.
No Lunesta tonight.

Pro•cras•ti•nate |prəˈkrastəˌnāt; prō-|
verb [ intrans. ]
delay or postpone action; put off doing something : it won't be this price for long, so don't procrastinate.

Looking this up just made everything seem all the more pressing.


It's curious what one thinks to eat in the middle of the night, with few or no options in the fridge. One lingers, 42 degrees wafting at the forearm in front of the open door, considering terrible experiments with mayonnaise and curry powder.

The door is shut and disaster is averted...until five minutes later when the door opens again. Maybe ranch and curry powder?

There are repeated visits to the icebox, as if, in 12 minutes of darkness, food has emerged via abiogenesis. No, it hasn't. There is no magnificent treat waiting, hidden behind the left over (forgotten) mashed potatoes...the Scrabble tiles of the refrigerator are all vowels.

Brussels Sprouts can't hurt.

Eight of them roll around in a bowl with yellow squares of butter. Yes. This is just the thing at 2:15am.


...

Aye me. How unsatisfying.

And work still beckons. An encampment of Focus sends up flares across the lake, as I skitter across the ice. I look into the night sky and see the Big Dipper. I could never make it out before. Smiling, I point straight up.

"Hey! Look you guys, it's the Big Dipper!"

Robert Falcon Scott, who is no stranger to lost directions, shakes his head and sends up another red flare.

"Oh...right..." I scurry further across the lake as the churning waters of Being and Time threaten to crack the ice from beneath.

Robert Falcon Scott barks at me "No more of that, now. Stop it this instant!"

Man.

The ice collapses behind me as I make it to shore. Snow melts away and I'm back in my apartment. No Robert Falcon Scott. No Snow. No Being. No Time.

Just wide awake with work tugging at my polka dotted pajama pants.

(Never you mind counting the P's in that sentence. Get to work.)

Yes, get to work. Right after I eat some more vowels out of the fridge.