Do dyslexic insomniacs lay awake at night and wonder if there is a dog?

Alright, alright – it’s an old joke but it still knocks me out. Colour me easily amused at this hour when sleep eludes me; the wee hours when I start pondering the meaning of it all, re-reading Anne Sexton and Victor Frankl and skimming some Jung, Sartre and Camus for good or bad measure (no wonder I can’t sleep). I find myself missing the Aurora Borealis, usually dancing the skies here on the lip of the Arctic Circle fairly often, but they have been avoiding me for far too long. Native legend has it that they dance souls to the Great Creator when someone dies; a pretty sentiment but one I’m not sure I ascribe to. My spirit’s somewhat fickle and agnostic at best, and particularly antsy late at night. The fire’s burning low, as is my energy level. I think I will tuck my blogging fingers away for tonight and give my lazy mind a rest. Enter Morpheus, I entreat thee.


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