I was reading At the Existentialist Cafe. The methodology of phenomenology innovated by the philosopher Husserl was introduced in Chapter 2,

So what exactly is phenomenology? It is essentially a method rather than a set of theories, and — at the risk of wildly oversimplifying — its basic approach can be conveyed through a two-word command: DESCRIBE PHENOMENA.

The first part of this is straightforward: a phenomenologist’s job is to describe. This is the activity that Husserl kept reminding his ‘students to do. It meant stripping away distractions, habits, clichés of thought, presumptions and received ideas, in order to return our attention to what he called the ‘things themselves’. We must fix our beady gaze on them and capture them exactly as they appear, rather than as we think they are supposed to be.

As an example, take a cup of coffee. (Husserl liked coffee: long before Aron talked about the phenomenology of apricot cocktails, Husserl told students in his seminars, ‘Give me my coffee so that I can make phenomenology out of it.’)

What, then, is a cup of coffee? I might define it in terms of its chemistry and the botany of the coffee plant, and add a summary of how its beans are grown and exported, how they are ground, how hot water is pressed through the powder and then poured into a shaped receptacle to be presented to a member of the human species who orally ingests it. I could analyse the effect of caffeine on the body, or discuss the international coffee trade. I could fill an encyclopaedia with these facts, and I would still get no closer to saying what this particular cup of coffee in front of me is. On the other hand, if I went the other way and conjured up a set of purely personal, sentimental associations — as Marcel Proust does when he dunks his madeleine in his tea and goes on to write seven volumes about it — that would not.

Instead, this cup of coffee is a rich aroma, at once earthy and perfumed; it is the lazy movement of a curlicue of steam rising from its surface. As I lift it to my lips, it is a placidly shifting liquid and a weight in my hand inside its thick-rimmed cup. It is an approaching warmth, then an intense dark flavour on my tongue, starting with a slightly austere jolt and then relaxing into a comforting warmth, which spreads from the cup into my body, bringing the promise of lasting alertness and refreshment. The promise, the anticipated sensations, the smell, the colour and the flavour are all part of the coffee as phenomenon. They all emerge by being experienced.

I found no more appropriate method of describing insomnia than this, phenomenology. Every being troubled by illness, physically or mentally, would probably be better off seeing the doctors should he or she be a good phenomenologist.

Now, describe.

Insomnia is the white, lifeless ceiling that hangs above you. You have never felt the weight of the blanket and the annoying warmth produced by your body so intrudingly before. Yet they are not the primary enemy, just side effects.

Insomnia, on one hand so dull and silent, is cranking and boiling on the other. It is the sense of immediate danger, as if the past years have all been lived in vain, in sleep, in the hand of someone else. It is just that you are finally so sober now, that sleep become so unimportant before you figure out the question at hand.

Things now fall apart like how a mechanical watch breaks into a funny Cubist collection of springs and gears, or how a marble statue is really made of wax and melts away right in the center of the piazza. Like melted wax indeed, your sense of meanings drains down the sewerage pipes. You don't want to do nothing about it because now you don't know what to do because whatever you do creates no value but drains down the sewerage pipes.

You now see your home as a hostel and your life as a lie. Worst of all, whatever you think or say becomes automatically a new lie. Your movement and speech become slow and hesistant, a natural result, as they are now not necessary nor justified. You don't see why you need to do something as well as why you don't need to do anything. Either way, it's the same.

These thoughts are so harsh on you, like cars on the highway they rush through your mind leaving your nerves on edge. Sleep is not a visitor tonight.