insomnia.

I'm been suffering from insomnia these days, during the coldest time of the year, when sleep should be of no difficulty for a working person who has been craving for holidays. It's like a disease I've caught, I mean, instead of flu, I am infected with insomnia, which can be more destructive than illnesses of any kind. 

Something in life always resembles something in One Hundred Years of Solitude. And there is a part of the story about insomnia which I've remembered very well: 

One day Rebecca got insomnia; all of a sudden, like a disease with an anonymous origin. And quickly the whole town become infected with insomnia, which then leads to amnesia, the loss of memory at a collective scale. Afraid of losing everything they remember, the inhabitants of the town start to put a label at everything they see or believe, so that they can always be reminded that this is a 'stool', and 'GOD EXISTS'. Until one day the gypsy returns, bringing with him the antidote of insomnia, and everybody is cured.

Insomnia is such a metaphor. And such a metaphor has found me, as if trying to tell me something by giving me insomnia.

But I wish a gypsy could come and rescue me.