It is tempting to think of this form of insomnia, the inability to fall asleep, as a disease of agency and control: the inability to relinquish high self-reflexive consciousness for the vulnerable, ignorant regions of slumber in which we know not what we do. ~ Siri Hustvedt
I love Siri, or rather I admire her and her work and sometimes I've seen her walking around Park Slope. I never wondered before if she'd slept or not.
But Sleep... Oh Sleep...
Sleep is a selfish lover that comes and goes as she pleases. She will, if it suits her, come over and spend the night and she'll leave in the morning and you will know in your heart of hearts that life could never be better. Then the next time you see her she'll be all up in your face about this or that and you'll wonder what you've done to deserve the grief she's throwing at you, but be pretty well convinced that it must've been something bad because how often has she been wrong anyway?
Of what, you'll never find out but that's Sleep.
Then sometimes she'll come and rock you off into the never-nevers, only to get restless and start kicking about and sighing and harumphing. You ask what's wrong even though you really don't want to fucking hear it and the next thing you know Sleep is up and she's stomping about the room nagging you about ex-lovers or work things that are none of her business or some non-event from the distant past that you thought she was over but she is a woman after all so nothing is ever truly over and done with.
Especially not at 3 a.m. It's all coming back around at 3 a.m. You may have forgotten all about it, but Sleep hasn't. Trust. Sleep never forgets. She decides when something is over, and even then.
Sleep is the confounding bitch that you'll keep taking back.