Insomnia

The brain will not go to sleep.
Heavy sheet and misshaped pillows. The weary limbs are cumbersome, just don’t fit. Yet, the eyes are exhausted and refuse the light, refuse the words from the pages of books, reject their semantics with harsh impatience, turn away from a TV set that provides no image of interest. The body wants rest, longs for immobility. But the brain denies it.
Arborescence of thoughts, succession of ideas, and blooming of inspiration rendered sterile by the drop in energetic resources. The brain suffers from its own obstinacy at wakeful clarity. It overheats with the constant scanning and analysis of memories and sensations, with the ongoing endeavor to elaborate relevant reactions.
For a few seconds, the flow of synaptic activity runs unprocessed, and flings into delightful absurdity, while representation of the body is distorted back to its early stages, thicker, smaller, unstable, vague. A plump baby under a tiny blanket.
But soon the brain starts to stare at the inadequacy of the information, and marvels at the evocation of its evolution. Apt again, it rambles restlessly through its shelves and drawers, looking for keys to its own composition, reinterprets its past, and emit hypothesis on its future, building a model of its life between now and death, with projects and achievements, obstacles and blows. It leaves the body behind, wretched, feverish, in the bed it has grown to hate.
After hours of speculations, the brain gives away, unwillingly. It slips from of its attempt at live architecture into unconsciousness. The body and the brain wake up in the morrow, reunited in headache and nausea, more than ever unable to rise to the brain’s expectations.

Soundtrack: "Telephasic Workshop", Boards of Canada