A bout of insomnia lingers. I’ve done my best to kick it but each night my soul takes my restless conscious for a ride. It’s hungry for experience as much as I and if I don’t feed it enough during the day I’ll pay for it after midnight.
I lie in the heat, drawing as much comfort from the spinning fan, eyes wide, alert. Sleep seems as far away as the 12th month so I roll over, scratch some pencil notes in the diary, try to clear the mind through meditation then lie back in Savasana… and wait.
Momentary flashes of sleep torment me, my guardian angels consort with demons and packs of street dogs run beneath the house. In the early hours I wrestle back what’s left before unfamiliar birds clear their throat and bark, not a note amongst the colour and the sunlight slowly climbs over the window sill and creeps up the end of my bed.
Is it the endless days of yoga, new landscapes feeding an acitve imagination or just too many chilies in the wok?!