Looking for Morpheus. A Moral Tale

There are insomniacs, who can’t fight it, and those who, having aged against their will, start waking up earlier and earlier. Those who work night-shifts. Certain artists, too, who find it better to create when the world around them is asleep, and the heavy-winged moths, who prefer life in the dark. And there I sit, with bulging eyes, silly and lonely, staring at my screen.

I am not suffering, I am not creating. Nor am I having a wild night.

I sleep too much. Too early, all the time, too long, every day. With all this rest in store, I can't sleep tonight. My mind is saying yes, my body is saying no. He doesn’t give a dime -this fanatic- he is awake. And my pavlovian mind is drooling over slumber. So I wander around like a tormented soul, and I dream of sleeping.

I never should have drunk that darn coke.