Today, I finished reading an old book by a girl who also had insomnia.
Plath, the growing-of-age everyone-read-when-15 book, Bell Jar.
Going through the motions, living on the high life, wondering which figs to clutch on, and so many things that she wanted to do. But I understand how she described that she would never know when the darkness came back to cover her one day.
Another night without much sleep, like the past weeks, but tonight is a little better. Every night I have woken up, pretty much – the mousey art of pacing around unsure of myself, not being able to work or do anything practical but listen to absent jazz and finish a last portion of Somerset Maugham. I have been trying to write, or rather as always, dreaming of writing – the same way one dreams of baking a frilly cake, with rainbow sparkly icing, in the midst of a cold, dark winter. At night, it is quiet, and there is nothing to do but to pace around muttering to oneself that one should really fall asleep.
I could be the girl with insomnia without love, or the girl with insomnia with love, and both are essentially very different. It has struck me in the past week how a simple 3 days can change everything. One moment you are living your mundane excel-posterity life and the next moment you are shot up in a type of dream cloud and talking about substantial dreams with someone and having your feet hang in ski lifts (the Singapore’s version, the easier-termed ‘sky-ride’). It pretty much describes the whole of my life, where I have been caught unawares. I understand how Plath could sit at her table and pay so much attention to spreading caviar on her sandwich, and remember it. Then, in a strange, irreverent way, as all these substantial things begin to grow bigger and overcome you, the little moments (like caviar on a sandwich), start to eclipse them. They become somehow more real. A cavalier type of security, a simple moment of reading a book in front of a window (where the lights shine on a river). I don’t know how happiness lasts, how it begins to start, and what I think of it, anymore.
If it’s a push that you are needing, I would hold you parallel, for you’ll never be alone.If it’s truth that you are missing, I’ll persuade you until you don’t leave a mark.
And if it’s distance that keeps you waiting, three-thousand miles ain’t all that rough.