Drip, tick, drip, tick. The leaky faucet and clock are reminders it is the middle of the night. The stickiness of the heat is resolved by a quick kicking off of blankets. Tossing, turning to get the body in a relaxing state. My brain won’t stay on silent. Rapid and fast visions flash like lightening. What should I make for lunch tomorrow? How am I going to pay that bill? What did so and so mean on Twitter? Why can’t I get a writing job? Then suddenly a snore erupts from the sleeping lump beside me. Blushing green with jealousy that he is in a dreamy state and I failed at a good night’s rest.
Somehow I drift off for a mere moment and this cluttered
mind hits recharge. Thoughts fire off
like a shot. How do you get gum out of
clothes? I wish I lived in New York. I don’t want to deal with the stack of
files on my desk. Eyes strained red and bags under them adding to the heaviness
of my face.
In the morning I somehow dress myself. I consume several
cups of coffee and try to appear as if I am functioning. My thinking is fogged
and words slowly spoken. It takes tolerance not to scream at people who suggest
counting sheep or drink myself into unconsciousness.
The mildew of the day stains and strains the heart. Often
tragic stories such as a fatal fire, bombing, random shootings replay in my
jumbled head. The current job market, economy, loved one’s health issues weigh my
body down. I fear and crave the night
because that is when it is quiet enough to be with my own thoughts.
Stress and anxiety are evil conspirators that wreck havoc in
the sleep pattern. A doctor once prescribed me with a sleep aide. Only those
My only saving grace
is writing and meditation. All writers
have some torment that jabs our sides until we are awakened. Insomnia to a
writer is a way of saying “write this down or ponder this”. As a writer I could
use my condition as a handicap or a tool in my own creativity. I would rather
spend my night writing than listen to the sound water dripping from the faucet
and pinging a bowl in the sink.