I've crossed some kind of invisible line. I feel as if I've come to a place I never thought I'd have to come to. And I don't know how I got here. It's a strange place. It's a place where a little harmless dreaming and then some sleepy, early-morning talk has led me into considerations of death and annihilation.
The monsters were never under my bed. Because the monsters were inside my head. I fear no monsters, for no monsters I see. Because all this time the monster has been me.
Foolishness sleeps soundly, while knowledge turns with each thinking hour, longing for the dawn of answers.
Waking up was a daily cruelty, an affront, and she avoided it by not sleeping.
Every man’s insomnia is as different from his neighbor’s as are their daytime hopes and aspirations.
I fix the cramped, lined pages with my curious stare. How do you come to exist?
You don’t block the window anymore. The breeze is cooler without the thick sweat of your breath. Air more fresh, not stained by the dirty words delivered. This space kisses me in ways you never could
Insomnia can be a gift. More time for reading, writing and walking. More time to live.
It's a rare book that wins the battle against drooping eyelids.
The best cure for insomnia is to get a lot of sleep.
In its early stages, insomnia is almost an oasis in which those who have to think or suffer darkly take refuge.
Insomnia is a gross feeder. It will nourish itself on any kind of thinking, including thinking about not thinking.