creative energy.

For the first time that I can remember, I have insomnia. I can't sleep. I don't just mean tonight, this night that I'm scribbling away at 3am. For the past few weeks, maybe even a month, I find myself hitting the lights and staring up at the black ceiling.

If you know me at all, you understand that this is strange. If you don't know me, let me tell you something about myself: I love to sleep. I wait until the last humanly possible moment to get out of bed in the morning. My roommates are well acquainted with my 10-minute morning dash from bathroomtokitchentofrontdoor. I'm also the person who unabashedly suggests that we go out at 6pm Friday night so that we can have dinner and some drinks and still be in bed by 11pm. I can't remember a time in my life when I didn't do sleep.

I can guess at the causes of this insomnia. One reason might be anxiety, usually in the form of What if I don't have a job? or What if I don't have enough money?

Another reason might be that, at certain points in life, you become very aware of changes as they happen. You can feel the rush of life passing. It isn't sadness or loss, just an acute sensation of yourself living your life. I get that sensation sometimes. Such moments I usually start narrating my own life in my head, which I think a character in one of Wendell Berry's novels also does, though I can't remember which one. She walked down the sidewalk. It had been another long day at work. She stepped on a leaf. You get the idea.