The author can be found rummaging through life looking for nourishment in the early hours of the morning. He is slowly going sane by using his actual life and relationships to wake up.He lives in Cape Town with his teenaged daughter, two bassett hounds named Thelma and Louise and Digit... the cat. He hugs trees, has experienced numerous dark nights of the soul, collects incorrect Chinese packaging and tracks curious things to their lair.
An Ode To InsomniaPsychotherapy July 18, 2013 - 2:49 am No Comment
I’ve always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be clean, the floorboards of their skulls well swept, all the little monsters closed up in a steamer trunk at the foot of their bed. The night sometimes feels like the hardest time to be alive and 2:47 a.m. knows all my secrets.
So I got up and put on my trusty slightly battered head torch and stole out of the house quietly and peddled the silent streets. Perplexed sentries blinked uncertainly as I waved. I roamed my garden and put my fingers into the soil.
I drew a picture of my dream fragments and tried to bake a cake. And now as the silent hours fade with a low hum, my eyelids start to droop and I notice that i have flour on my sleeve.