Insomnia sits still, a black cat on the chest, blankets too heavy or maybe too light, pillow tucked wrong. Thoughts of the day and thoughts of to do sifting like dust motes, lacking patterns, free-association swirling and glinting like the light on the walls of a car passing by, the shadows creeping. I never was afraid of the dark; I wasn't even afraid of the basement in the neighbor girls' big old farmhouse. After a while none of my childhood friends would play hide & seek with me. They never wanted to look the places I hid.
Sensory perception shifts in the dark and I study the lines and shapes of furniture, drapes. I look at his face by the half light and notice the sweetness, the line of his shoulder, his hand relaxed and fingers curled slightly in sleep. I can hear a dog bark once, twice. I can hear the slumber of the world, and of my world, the house creaking and settling, the fish tank burbling, dogs sighing in the next room, the man I love breathing softly beside me, even the cat's delicate whispy purring snore. Outside the air hangs still, the trees are all hushed. But I am not the only one awake at this hour; the train's whistle blows in the freight yard, and that means it's 3:45.
Some nights I slide out of bed and prowl the house without turning on any lights, hyperaware of the tables and chairs and other things I might bump in the night. I pat warm sleepy dogs who blink and sigh at me, drink a glass of water, watch the shadows on the walls. I wait until my bedsheets are cool before climbing back into bed.
Time loses meaning, becomes secondary; years ago I stopped counting my breaths, or heartbeats, or imaginary sheep jumping little white fences. With my eyes closed I slip in and out of light sleep, enough rest to function, but never that submersion into deeper water. I try to never fight it, because fighting insomnia is self-defeating. Sleep is one of my favorite things, and I covet my dreams. But last night, for all the sleeplessness, was not totally unpleasant. It was a good night, just not a good night's sleep.
Sensory perception shifts in the dark and I study the lines and shapes of furniture, drapes. I look at his face by the half light and notice the sweetness, the line of his shoulder, his hand relaxed and fingers curled slightly in sleep. I can hear a dog bark once, twice. I can hear the slumber of the world, and of my world, the house creaking and settling, the fish tank burbling, dogs sighing in the next room, the man I love breathing softly beside me, even the cat's delicate whispy purring snore. Outside the air hangs still, the trees are all hushed. But I am not the only one awake at this hour; the train's whistle blows in the freight yard, and that means it's 3:45.
Some nights I slide out of bed and prowl the house without turning on any lights, hyperaware of the tables and chairs and other things I might bump in the night. I pat warm sleepy dogs who blink and sigh at me, drink a glass of water, watch the shadows on the walls. I wait until my bedsheets are cool before climbing back into bed.
Time loses meaning, becomes secondary; years ago I stopped counting my breaths, or heartbeats, or imaginary sheep jumping little white fences. With my eyes closed I slip in and out of light sleep, enough rest to function, but never that submersion into deeper water. I try to never fight it, because fighting insomnia is self-defeating. Sleep is one of my favorite things, and I covet my dreams. But last night, for all the sleeplessness, was not totally unpleasant. It was a good night, just not a good night's sleep.
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