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Jan. 14th, 2013 07:54 am10.5 again. The more I sleep the more I realize how absurdly tired I am, which fits my theory that my body hasn't been letting me sleep more than 7 or 8 hours because it was in some kind of crisis mode - not letting you know how tired you are is a recognized emergency tactic, such that drastically underperforming tired people mostly believe they're doing great. I usually can tell pronounced sleep debt by my inability to enjoy anything, but maybe that's turned off to at such times, or possibly I was too tired to notice even anhedonia. I remember wakings like this - you vaguely hate everything except the fact you vaguely hate everything, since it means you're back on the map, are again some measurable distance from life worth the name.
(I'm not saying 7-8 isn't fine in general, but my problem frequently requires catchup sleep, so each minute over 8 is crucial. And while doubtless even 8 hours sounds miraculous to those born to a quick drummer or suffering from anxiety-based insomnia, you should remember that the same overactivation that truncates your sleep lets you accomplish things waking. I am a miserable, slumping, staring meatpile past a certain point, and stay that way until I can get those extra hours.)
I sometimes wonder if the sleep thing is what bound me so completely to the Romantics when I first encountered them. Their dejections and good moments were only not bipolar in their constant attempts to climb back when down, fed from the belief that they could, or rather from gnosis, a knowledge too remotely or multiply sourced for expression using standard means, but which still is sourced, still expeessible, hence poetry, which I'd define merely as any attempt to push through to the language behind language, the logic just past logic, that can connect the various risen and fallen times with one real pathway. For me that operation was at once the true and necessary one, and the others dubbed poetry, literature seemed and still seem trivial next to it.
Because I'm constantly reminded how much more there is to all of this than there seems. Hence maybe too the fierceness to my hatred of religion: the good day's in this world, looks just like today. And I know because I've lived it. Attacking my planet in favor of none or another, within or without, it's that that's the only blasphemy.
(I'm not saying 7-8 isn't fine in general, but my problem frequently requires catchup sleep, so each minute over 8 is crucial. And while doubtless even 8 hours sounds miraculous to those born to a quick drummer or suffering from anxiety-based insomnia, you should remember that the same overactivation that truncates your sleep lets you accomplish things waking. I am a miserable, slumping, staring meatpile past a certain point, and stay that way until I can get those extra hours.)
I sometimes wonder if the sleep thing is what bound me so completely to the Romantics when I first encountered them. Their dejections and good moments were only not bipolar in their constant attempts to climb back when down, fed from the belief that they could, or rather from gnosis, a knowledge too remotely or multiply sourced for expression using standard means, but which still is sourced, still expeessible, hence poetry, which I'd define merely as any attempt to push through to the language behind language, the logic just past logic, that can connect the various risen and fallen times with one real pathway. For me that operation was at once the true and necessary one, and the others dubbed poetry, literature seemed and still seem trivial next to it.
Because I'm constantly reminded how much more there is to all of this than there seems. Hence maybe too the fierceness to my hatred of religion: the good day's in this world, looks just like today. And I know because I've lived it. Attacking my planet in favor of none or another, within or without, it's that that's the only blasphemy.
