My psychosomatic aneurysm is throbbing in pain and my eyes are beginning to roll to the back of my skull.

Later in the day, I will be one of them again.  Them being: the sleep-deprived, nicotine- and caffeine-intoxicated night crawlers and grave dancers of this so-called global economy. 

I’ve shunned the moonlight for a good three weeks only to return to it like the tides of Manila Bay would ebb and surge to the waxing and the waning of Luna.  The difficulty is not in waking up: the difficulty lies in establishing a rhythm.  I find it hard to know when my aching body wants to sleep.  My abused circadian rhythm is giving up on me. 

One of these days, sleep would be either: a thing of the past… or the final resolution/answer to my tribulations.

In the meantime, I should prepare myself for the bright lights of Makati and the endless stream of corporate zombies and drones rushing in and out of her skyscrapers.  I should psyche myself for the heavy traffic and the bustling walkways where people often collide but don’t really give a damn.  I should anticipate the nauseating elevator lag and the long comfort room queue.

Most of all, I should accept the fact that in this line of profession, the faceless, foreign voices I assist, are the gods which create the rain that supplies this barren wasteland.  It’s an inescapable, immutable truth of the universe in which I am held captive.

I want to break free – so goes the song in my head.  But this is not the opportune moment.

There are mouths to feed and dreams to set aside.

Oh how I long for slumber…