I wish I could reconcile my waking hours with the ones when I should be sleeping. There is a reason why night and day are used to describe difference. Yet, in my world they are practically the same. I’m awake and
thinking worrying in both.
I’ve fallen into a pattern during daylight – plan dinner before breakfast has even settled in my stomach, work through work, wondering what is a library when it ceases to be about learning? Walk the walk and then take a walk. See how many miles I can log before quitting time. The more miles I walk there the less I’ll “have to” do at home. Get home. Check on the plants. Water and marvel at new growth. Cilantro, rosemary, dill, basil, tomatillo. They all look the same at this stage of the game. When do they get their own personality? Start the dinner I decided on hours ago. Jump on the treadmill. Bang out more miles. Dinner. Done. Mindless television or a thought provoking book (I’m reading Footnotes in Gaza, Dining with Al-Qaeda, and The Long Walk.) Plenty to think about.
I’ve fallen into a pattern during the moonlight hours as well – fall to sleep easily in the crook of my husband’s arm. He watches more bad tv while I drift away. Dreams settle soft and heavy. Dreams where I’m running toward someone I never seem to reach. Dreams where people I supposedly love die and I laugh. Loud. Something wakes me and I lay there wondering what it was. My thoughts become so loud I can’t shut them off. Soon I find myself pacing the kitchen floor, stalking strangers on FaceBook and questioning alcohol at 3am. The cats are alert and watchful. Maybe they’ll get lucky with a 4am feeding. Maybe not.
Sometimes I can go back to bed. Find the sweet spot of sleep and pretend 2am was just a dream. Sometimes I can’t. Either way every morning feels like a surfacing, a coming up for air.