Glance through the blinds of the fatigue

12:58 a.m. in Argentina.

Busy day at work. Tomorrow (today) 18th will be too... cannot "conciliate" a simple sleep. A couple of hard nights for the world, I believe.
When I'm tormented, I've always liked Paul Klee to ease my mind: "Colour has taken possession of me; no longer do I have to chase after it, I know that it has hold of me forever ... Colour and I are one. I am a painter."

Borges has its strong power too:

What is the insomnia?

The question is rhetorical; I know the answer too much well.
It is to fear and to count in the high night the fatal hard peals, is to try with useless magic a regular breathing, is the load of a body which abruptly changes side, it is to tighten the eyelids, it is a state similar to the fever and that certainly is not the wakefulness, is to pronounce fragments of paragraphs already read for many years, is to know itself guilty of guarding when others sleep, is to want to sink into the dream and not to be able to sink into the dream, is the horror of being and of continue being, it is the doubtful dawn.

What is the longevity?

It is the horror of being in a human body whose faculties decline, is an insomnia measured by decades and not by clock steel needles, is the weight of seas and pyramids, of old libraries and dynasties, of the dawns that Adam saw, it is not to ignore that I am condemned to my flesh, to my detested voice, my name, to one routine of memories, to the spanish, that I do not know how to handle, to the Latin nostalgy, that it is not of my acquaintance, to want to sink myself in the death and not to be able to sink myself in the death, to being and continuing being.

Jorge Luis Borges, "Two forms of insomnia".


I can upload something related, I have two years of works waiting to come out (many are useless): This is "Glance through the blinds of the fatigue". Poor and sad colours. Like the worn away insomniac look.




Sometimes there is no way to get an ease.