Now nothing eases the wandering eye of the insomniac like a diary. He longs for it, reaches for the warm memories indwelling it... many of which he at the moment cannot even conceive.
As, then, I read bits and pieces of a long gone past, assembling the works in my corrupt mind in haphazard, weary fashion, I embarked on a journey through the page marked only by the date... title-less and forgotten... merely March 31.
It mocked me, this piece, written by my pen, forgotten by my drained mind, preserved by the endless pages of my diary. I read- me, the insomniac- these words:
Intense passions lull me to sleep
And daily awaken me from her;
From that sleep that never is deep-
Daily this cycle now occurs.
These passions are images and feelings
Intertwined in a delicate mixture
They are immensely appealing
And before sleep they're a perfect picture.
And as, with shivering eyes I read and reread, I mourn for my lost ability. For the irreplaceable ability of sleep.
Adonis
