Night of the Living Dead

Well, tonight I hit the sack early hoping to gain back the sleep I'd lost over the week but awoke a mere two and a half hours later wide-awake, feeling in abeyance of sleep. These words seem a tad coincidental, perhaps ironic--though this has happened before-- in light of discussing Chaucer's Book of the Duchess yesterday. I sympathise with the narrator when he admits: "Purely for defaulte of slepe, / That, by my trouthe, I take no kepe / Of noothinge--how hyt cometh or gooth." That's exactly how I felt when I awoke earlier: in abeyance, in limbo, inbetween. I wish my brain would find easier paths to revelation than addling. But it didn't end here. When I realized that I'd be up for a few hours at least, I picked up Boethius's Consolation of Philosophy hoping to pass the time and learn. But once again I was coddled, if not slapped, by words of startling coincidence. I can't remember the exact passage nevertheless I feel irked whenever literature acts like a smart ass or know-it-all with its blatant insights. Poetic justice for a person who likes to play the role of smart ass too, perhaps? This is a warning for all you readers: reading too much literature WILL come back to haunt you if you are negligent of your body; you WILL be bitchslapped with literature down the road.

That's my insight for today. :)