Capt SpaceBat

Listening to “Old Harry’s Game” on BBC Radio last night, I had several semi-insights into my appreciation of BPD.  The basis of the episode was that Satan was having troubles writing his diary as Hell, being eternal, had no sense of time or chronology.  His opponent - the professor - explained that time was there to make sure that not everything happened all at the same time.  My personal preferred view is that time is the measure of the increase of entropy, which probably amounts to about the same thing, chaos and disorder being cumulative and unidirectional.  It only gets worse …

This tied in with many of my experiences of time: insomnia, inability to start or end things as they are continual - they are always there in my head - and the only extension of experience being through the more keenly felt and observed agonies of metaphorical auto-flagellation.  The only time is “before I was like this” and - hopefully - when I get better.  All else happens all the time.  It is always there - the same day; not over and over, but the same day all the time.

So, why bother with sleep?

” … Study me then, you who shall lovers be
At the next world, that is, at the next spring:
For I am every dead thing,
In whom love wrought new alchemy.
For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness:
He ruined me, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.”

“A Nocturnal upon Saint Lucy’s Day, Being the Shortest Day” by John Donne (1572–1631), British poet.