Insomnia and Me.

Something about the act of sleep has always bothered me. Or rather the need to sleep. As long as I can remember I've had issues in the sack, mainly how to stay in it and use it purposefully. If you listen to my mother she'll recite adorable little stories about yours truly around the age of the crib: if she had to sneak through my room during nap time, she'd have to move on tiptoe lest I'd wake up. But I always did wake up, if I was ever really asleep in the first place.
I've never been able to just let go, let the circadian rhythms do their work. My brain never stops, there's just to much to think about and too little time to waste on something as ridiculous as sleep. Or so I've always felt, although my body disagrees. And so we tangle the good fight between ecstasy and exhaustion; some weeks are productive, full of high strung energies, while other weeks are grim, the lack of rest wearing thin. And then I crash.
Last night was one of those sleepless nights. I was cleaning out some files to make room for more rubbish and I came across some old sketches and conceptual renderings that I've hardly shared and never posted. Here's one, dealing with a dichotomy as distinct as that of reality and dreams, or something like that:

                                                     2008, watercolor & ink