Sleepless

It would be insomnia, except it only happens when warm weather rolls around. It's past three bloody AM. I have run out of things to organize, wine to drink, books to read, asanas to breathe through. Summer is that wonderful time of year when my body rebels against normal sleep patterns. Every bloody, stinking June, it starts: nights spent awake, at least three of them a week.

The good part is that I read a lot more. The bad part is that I end up reading ambitious rubbish. Such as The Scar, by China Mieville, the plot of which doesn't pick up until page 276 only to conclude some 276 pages later in a stupefying, unsatisfactory manner.

Another good part is that I attempt to be more organized. The downside is that everything ends up being color coded, labeled, indexed or rearranged. Let me say this: wandering into Walgreens at 4AM in search of an orange binder (to go with the orange paper clips and post-its, which will be used to mark and store all my insomnia induced concoctations, such as apple-garlic sandwiches) is an underrated experience. Especially since I detest color coding.

But I do it anyway. Maybe it's a curse. That would be the romantic perspective. The truth is that I feel useless without papers to write, so I stay awake and try to pretend I do useful things. And no matter how useful those things may be, when they're performed in the dead of night as a form of escapism, they're just baggage. And I can't stop it from accumulating. All I do is catalogue it.

Ah, June, you always make a librarian of me.