\n

Melatonin, therapy, and age may have helped, but I continue to sleep lightly, and insomnia haunts life\u2019s perimeters, turning what could be a routine bodily function into a realm of uncertainty while awaiting its return: the night before a job interview; following days spent bedbound by chronic illness; each and every September.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

\n

\n

The irony of insomnia, and other forms of sleeplessness, is that within perpetual wakefulness there is a kind of unasked-for presentness contiguous with what the American art critic Jonathan Crary calls a \u201cgeneralized condition of worldlessness.\u201d^{2<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 2 <\/a> - Jonathan Crary, 24\/7: Late Capitalism and the Ends of Sleep<\/em> (London: Verso, 2013), 18.<\/span> When unable to sleep we are confronted with the impossibility of living humanely. Caught tight by capitalism\u2019s pervasive hold, we find ourselves living an existence that we have lost touch with<\/em> and sense of<\/em>. A situation illustrated by every \u201cmy-brain-at-3am\u201d meme, in which private anxieties, embarrassing memories, generalized worries, and sheer boredom ripples under skin. Though, even this description of sleeplessness makes it sound somewhat reasonable, answerable, other than its awful mix of wearied frustration.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In mirrored opposition to these private struggles, I am fascinated by the sleepers. You see them on planes: necks at strange angles, mouths agape; heads held by crossed arms resting gently atop folding tray tables; blissfully unaware of meal service and a neighbour\u2019s desire to use the restroom. Their legs twitch, my fists curl.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

\n