It’s 4:00 a.m. and I’m lying on the couch eating Brownie Brittle (Google it) and writing this on my phone. I’m an experienced enough insomniac to be able to read my body’s signs. I’ll be up for a while.
The worst is when, like tonight, I cave, take a sleeping pill, and still can’t break the sleep barrier. The medication’s strong enough to dull my senses, but too weak to knock me out. My brain decided to protest just as I attempted to turn it off and boldly continues doing what it does best: getting caught up in tangents of unhelpful late-night/early morning thinking, currently about the history of digital cameras, Ricky Gervais, the politics of youth in fascist Italy, and dental cleanings. It’s not about to be quashed by a little blue tablet.
I’ve lounged on this sofa in the dark staring out the front window as day breaks on many occasions. I’ll probably see the first glimmers of sun this morning, too. Then I’ll retreat to bed, make a last-ditch effort to salvage a few hours of shut-eye, and spend the rest of my Saturday watching Netflix and editing through blurry eyes. And, with any luck, have a good long nap.