i'm wondering if my brain is trying to tell me something, if actually i'm supposed to be using those hours for some special purpose, if this is time in which i should be responding to some higher calling. i am becoming more and more adept at functioning on very little sleep, and in some ways am becoming, all things being relative, an organisational powerhouse.
maybe in these lost hours of frustrated pain i am actually supposed to be writing that novel, or having the big idea that catapults us out of debt. maybe i'm supposed to be changing the world, seeking truth and justice through tireless 4am crusades.
or maybe this way clinical psychosis lies.
"it is a well discussed fact that margaret thatcher only had four fours sleep a night," my boyfriend tells me, driving to his game, "and look what she achieved!"
"shudder," I said, by now well used to having to verbalise horrified tics.
"okay, well, maybe acheived is the wrong word. let's go with caused. look what she caused on four hours sleep a night. insomnia does not mean the end of a... prolific output."
i had to stop gnawing my fist to laugh, and that is the work of a special someone.
maybe in these lost hours of frustrated pain i am actually supposed to be writing that novel, or having the big idea that catapults us out of debt. maybe i'm supposed to be changing the world, seeking truth and justice through tireless 4am crusades.
or maybe this way clinical psychosis lies.
"it is a well discussed fact that margaret thatcher only had four fours sleep a night," my boyfriend tells me, driving to his game, "and look what she achieved!"
"shudder," I said, by now well used to having to verbalise horrified tics.
"okay, well, maybe acheived is the wrong word. let's go with caused. look what she caused on four hours sleep a night. insomnia does not mean the end of a... prolific output."
i had to stop gnawing my fist to laugh, and that is the work of a special someone.
.
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