This year, my last year on the ground before heading off into the wild blue, so to speak, has introduced me to and acquainted me well with an under-appreciated state of mind familiar to many of us.

Delirium. Delirium tempered by insomnia.

Sleep deprivation would be a simpler way of putting it. In this past week, I slept for less than three hours nightly on four occasions.

I'm not blaming anybody but myself or trying to engender sympathy. Maybe I should try out for Dave Attell's job on "Insomniac," the Comedy Central show.

Tests, a gig for your band, a paper that has to get printed, a column that has to get written, 14 reporters who look to you as a father of sorts, a story that your department head is looking over your shoulder at as you write. A girl who you love dearly. An apartment that looks like a disaster area.

It's a miracle to come out even relatively unscathed on the other end of all of that pressure. Insomnia is a small price to pay for the fulfillment.

The movie "Insomnia," starring Al Pacino and Robin Williams, a dramatic thriller based in Alaska, where the sun shines almost all 24 hours of the day for six months, portrays the condition impeccably.

Sleep dep, as those familiar with the condition like to refer to it, is a marvelous barometer of your ability to focus and achieve. What can you really push yourself to do?

First, there's the half-awake feeling that accompanies waking up after so little rest.

Stressors become much more difficult to handle. I've been wearing my soul on my face for the last week; my guard has just been down a smidge since I've joined the ranks of the walking dead.

Then, there are the pick-me-ups. Caffeine slowly starts to take no effect as the day wears on; bags black as night appear under the eyes. You start to ask yourself if the hours are passing quicker or slower. For you, there is no difference -- you're still not getting any rest. You're still working. You have no alternative but to break on through.

Once the light of the afternoon fades and night creeps in, the desire to fall flat starts to eat away at you. Laughter becomes piercing, light and sound begin to ache in the brain. Objects are fuzzy. Thoughts form only half-way before they come out in fractured, incomprehensible sentences. Time seems as though it runs past you at a blinding rate, as deadlines and assignments that absolutely must be finished loom. You hate those who you know are resting comfortably at home.

So far, every other night, after the evenings overtaken by insomnia, workloads akin to Egyptian slavery and relationship dilemmas, the much-awaited crash comes calling.

Sleep hits before you hit the pillow. You're actually walking around in a state of rest; the mind is blank, vapid, glazed over like a sticky donut.

Once sleep comes, so do the dreams.

Dreams -- the process to deal with the cascade of electronic impulses that misfire during the hellish, unending day of an insomniac.

Dreams -- the haven for those who watch the midnight oil burn far past the wick. A way to slip the noose of arduous days of class that cling to you like super glue.

Without the solace of my irregularly large king-size bed, which I refer to as "The Island of Dreams," the schedule might wear me down.

With it, each bleary, red-eyed day promises an off day of hibernation.

Nick Todaro is a senior journalism major from Shreveport and serves as managing editor for The Tech Talk. E-mail comments to nst005@latech.edu.