Migration

is sometimes a necessity of change.

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Dipsosomnia

The pain of sleep is not like any other hurt. It is a pain of you, yourself, an ache that's consuming, whole and undefined. A woman in a chaste night rail once asked me: You know when you're lying in bed, trying to fall asleep and you pull up short with a jerk like you're falling?  Except you're not falling, you're just falling asleep?  The pain of sleep is like that.  Except you never fall.  Wanting to fall you scrabble on your hands and knees and your belly to a cliff's edge, turn around and let your body slide over, feet, calves, thighs.   But you grip tightly, tightly with your hands to a tree root near the precipice.  Then you close your eyes and prepare to release, to fall, only to discover, to your horror, your hands have grown into the root stock.  They are no longer yours.  The processes by which your body works become disconnected and arcane, telegraphs with flesh wires, mechanical clocks buried in the sea, and you are are stuck and hung immobile.

The need for sleep is a discomfort that presses into your neck and abdomen, but mostly into your head where it swirls, inexorable and dangerous.  You don't know which you want more: for it to leave you empty or take you over altogether. This is what dying feels like, you think and then think that can't be true, and then know that it is.

 The pain of sleep is divided into two varieties: its lack and its threat of inconvenient arrival.  One is a pillory, the other a room made of everything soft and pillowy: floor length drapes, the rumps of cats, banks of ferns, Turkish Delight (the Narnian kind), the thighs of voluptuous women, piles of un-spun wool.  Your entrance is inevitable. For though you shut the door firmly during Shakespeare, Schoenberg, and stoichiometry, you'll find yourself a-bed inside as if there were never any door after all.