Sleep recoil?

     Circadian rhythms getting back in sync or something?  Who knows … Didn’t sleep much last night (stomach ache, now that I remember, actually) and the night before was … uncomfortable.  I can’t quite explain or express it, but when I haven’t slept well the night before (or for two nights!), the bulk of that sleep-deprived time isn’t very fun.  It’s just…uncomfortable.  But there’s a certain portion of it which feels like a calm version of the sleep deprivation, where my body isn’t really struggling to function or anything.  

     Usually these times are after I’ve been relatively sedentary for about an hour or so, then it’s like the body can go on standby, but the … again, hard to explain.  It’s like a velvet cloth of fatigue over my thoughts; not enough to be konked out, somewhat comforting, and sort of acts as a natural tranquilizer or benzodiazepine or something.  It’s at these times when it’s easier, and perhaps safer, to dip into what makes up the bulk of my “being”.  However, as is becoming quite clear, the fatigue also makes it difficult to properly express what are already rather abstract thoughts to begin with.  

     And so I get stuck.  It becomes a challenge to even figure out what to write about from this pool of emotion or subject matter with which I have (I believe) a very intimate relationship.  I think that’s what makes those considered to be “great” writers so great – and I’m not talking about clever plots or stories or anything, but how Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea delivered its story, or Camus’s L’Etranger.  Somehow those guys were able to tap into that ability to perceive things differently than most, but not so different that it seemed too alien or foreign to many people.  Same with Fight Club, my own little Catcher in the Rye, so to speak.  Great stuff.

     And now, I grow … tired.  Again.