BornFromInsomnia

Man, what a rush! I must've had months and months of sleep that time, so it's been a while and I'm sorry. But as the digital clock rearranges it's face to signal yet another minute of sleeplessness, it's time for another episode of "The Self Indulgent Writings of an Insomniac." Like many things in my life, my old synthesizer was an impulse buy. It was a Yamaha DX-9, big, black and made of industrial-strength steel. I bought it from Ebay, after spending a happy weekend marveling at the talents of such greats as Keith Emerson, Rick Wakeman and Jean Michel Jarre. Dreams were had of manic finger-twiddling, of the pushing of buttons and twirling

It's been a while. Must've been two good weeks of sleeping I got in at this last run. But now I'm back, I can't sleep and there is a storm brewing, both in the atmosphere and on my fevered brow. Yes, it's time for another instalment of the Self-Indulgent Writings of an Insomniac. So it's raining. Or rather, it has been today. It has rained for the past week, and I have it on good authority that it'll rain for the next week as well. All over the local news, there have been the usual stories of pensioners standing on their front steps sweeping away the ever encroaching tide threatening to engulf their homes and carry their possessions downstre

Awake at midnight again, so I shall open this instalment with a dream I had... I was fooling around on my computer with a few pictures I had taken of an alternator, to take to a scrapyard and find the correct part. All of a sudden, my friend bursts in and starts ranting and raving about this picture, and how good it is. Says I should send it into the Tate Modern to be admired, and when I decline and tell him that it's just a stupid picture of a stupid alternator, he goes and does it anyway. So I'm invited to the unveiling of my great work, and I'm sat there in a starched tuxedo that's making my neck itch, trying to duck and weave my way out

A few years ago, I used to suffer from chronic and irreversible insomnia. To cut a long story short, I thought I'd got past it until over the past week, it has reared its ugly head yet again. I remember well those listless, stuffy nights, lying awake in my bed with nothing but the tick of the alarm clock (and occasionally my iPod) to pass the time listening to. These were the most boring nights of my life. But tonight is different. Tonight, I have a purpose. Tonight, I bring to you, dear reader, the first instalment of "The Self-Indulgent Writings of an Insomniac." I can't sleep, but it's different to that other feeling of can'tsleep. My e