Insomniac

Weeks without insomnia. Weeks of deep, restful sleep. Weeks of the most beautiful, fantastic, vivid dreams I've had in months, perhaps even years – dreams of far-off lands, spirited women, strong children, marvelous enchantment, darkest pain and sorrow, brightest joy, and deepest love, both forbidden and allowed.
And tonight it strikes me like a club.

I have written so many words in recent days. Too many. I have too many words, and not enough paper. There is not enough ink. I even find a shortage of words for my thoughts. There are not enough letters in any language to form the words that I want to say. There is no language eloquent enough to express the beauty I have seen, heard, touched, embraced (though only for a moment - not even the length of a breath).
I write furiously, wishing to express what I have felt. My journal groans angrily now when I open it, rather than greeting me with a welcoming sigh. My pen hisses at me as it runs along page after page, and scrap after scrap of paper. The keys on which I type are worn, their once sharp corners now rounded, and the once crisp letters, of which the keys were so proud, now faded. My knuckles hurt, my finger-tips are callused, and my eyes are dry, and ache from strain.

But this is not pain. The cause is not sorrow. Nor is it anger. It is joy I feel. Joy has caused this anguish. And beauty.
Joy, beauty, anguish. Are these adequate?  Have I found the perfect language? No, they are the definition. They are but a definition of a single word that describes it all. Everything I wish to say is contained in one word.

-zh