When you can’t sleep, the only choice you are left with is waiting. Wait for it; it’ll eventually come in the wee hours: the saving blackout.

Insomnia, more than most other things, makes one seriously contemplate what life is or about, and when you come to think of it, life is really nothing but the process of changing beds. You begin with a little crib and a mother’s milk and lullabies just to end up on a deathbed with somebody around or nobody around. And the in-between is filled with a succession of bedsheets and pillows – and bedfellows if you can afford those.

Insomnia forces one to vivisect one’s day with its minute details. That process does not lead anywhere, does not halt the slow tick-tocking of Time or trick it in any way.

How was your day? A day like any other spent under house arrest, no adjective assigned; a day now dead and gone and out of that day another should be born.

I watched two pigeons make love outside of my window this morning. Tirelessly, everything goes on screwing everything else in order to keep the wheels of nature rolling. Eat, breed, die is the universal mantra. Only antinatalists, asexuals, and nuns seem reluctant to contribute. Me? I’m with the nuns, faithless as I am.

I toss and turn in my bed like the possessed. All sorts of thoughts flood my gateless mind. I wonder what Linda Evangelista is doing at this very moment. What time is it where she is? Where is she? With whom is she? How old is she now? Is she still beautiful? Has she aged? Is the glamour gone?

I get up and turn on the light, walk around the room, sit at my desk, doodle, write some silly lines:

In the shade of a palm tree

Two men sat.

One was a necromancer,

And the other one believed

The earth was flat.

The former was thin,

The latter very fat.

They clearly had nothing to tell each other

And that was that.

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