At the Threshold

One of the avatars of Vishnu could not, it was said, be killed during the day or the night, either inside or outside. They killed him on the threshold of his house at dusk (or was it dawn?). In the last fortnight, I have become an insomniac – which is to be exiled doubly: from sleep’s repose, and from the waking world; I belong to neither. Then, remembering what Kafka wrote about the merciful surplus, I wonder whether what insomnia prevents it might also make possible: that there might be a writing of insomnia, born of an unexpected strength. But no – here, at the threshold, belonging neither to the day or night, I can’t write a line.