Insomnia and the Hole in the Universe

Upon these travelers who make their way without maps or guides, there breaks a wave of exhilaration with each unexpected change of plans. This exhilaration is not a whore who can be bought with money nor a neighborhood beauty who can be wooed. She (to persist in personifying the sensation as female) is a wild and sea-eyed undine, the darling daughter of adventure, the sister of risk, and is is for her rare and always ephemeral embrace, the temporary pressure she exerts of the membrane of ecstasy, that many men leave home.

Ah, wanderlust, who was the fire among the dreamers trying to kid? Settle? Any thought of calm was just the eye in the hurricane.

And thinking of holes in the universe, at times I wonder, as I wander, if I weren’t the one tearing a rent in the fabric of reality. I am homesick no doubt. I wonder why I have come to this place. I lay down, close my eyes and am flooded by images of snow-topped volcanoes, rushing water, and sun-drenched ponderosa scraping the sky. I chaff at any missions that have sent me here. I cannot get away to find myself here and begin to wonder who I am. Sometimes I see reflections and laugh because they please me much now. I cry because I still do not believe that he knows, believes or is even capable of fathoming the depths of my desire and the light of the bell-like laughter he is capable of releasing from me. I weave a story as that figment takes me far over the edge past the point of no return. I shudder in release from this lust craze and feel the bottom drop out with the realization once again that it is merely my mind’s creation, and that there is no one who knows my mind.