A Manic Love Song to Thinking

I cannot sleep. I find myself beset by a raucous mental clamouring that makes me feel a stranger in my own head. Nothing can stifle the din. The will, in this particular case the will to sleep, is revealed as subservient to louder psychical forces at work. For me insomnia is a manic love song to thinking. Inchoate thoughts, ill formed, leap at one another, pirouette wildly around each other and ricochet in a desultory, kaleidoscope-like chaos. It is a rigorously invigorating state of consciousness that dissembles a sort of hyper-awareness that is in truth a heady stupor. Volition is illusory and thoughts come unbidden and at such a pace and with such feeling that I can hardly claim ownership of them. It's 3:36. I'm in full surrender to consciousness. I update my facebook status: "Insomnia Night 2: Cerebral Capitulation to Consciousness" hoping someone will answer. I feel like I could run for miles, and indeed just returned inside from cruising around on my longboard. It's 3:41. My heart ticks a quick tock as I try and force the visceral energy I feel into self-expression. I think about Rousseau who revolutionized poetry and defined an era by laying claim on the individual self as worthy subject for poetic consideration. Insomnia is narcissistic and since it's a sort of self-surrender (to forces of consciousness autonomous from ego-will), self-preoccupation doesn't seem inorganic to the experience. I wouldn't be surprised if Rousseau suffered from insomnia but profited thereby in his writing. It's 3:47. That makes me think of 24 with its frantic pacing and schizoid plot twists, all the while a doomsday clock ticking down the time to inspire within the viewer its own stupid frenzy. It's 3:50. 4 am is looming and I will not sleep for another hour at least. It's 3:55. It's 3:59. With all of the thoughts swirling in my brain (funny that fatigue should have as its companion such energy) you'd think I'd have more to write. It's 4 am. Sigh.