The sun came up like a thief this morning. It’s never easy to lay in bed thinking about all the problems one could solve if the world wasn’t asleep outside. There’s a peculiar helplessness in the middle of the night, even if one gets up and goes hunting for paperwork one doesn’t have a hope of finding when one’s head is muzzy from insomnia.
But sometimes, it’s worse when the light through the window turns gray, and the birds start their joyous whistles and trills. When you know the tide’s turned and there isn’t any hope for sleep again, not until the dark comes back. It becomes a question of pushing oneself through the day, aiming for an exhaustion that will make sleep come later. Hopefully. Always hopefully.
There are some good things about insomnia. When the world is quiet, there’s a certain inescapable clarity to one’s dealings with oneself. There is no mirror like 3AM to show you all the cracks, wrinkles, weak spots in the chain. It’s a microscope made of the brain eating itself, and every detail is magnified.
So even though I’m so tired I can barely stand upright, I have a curious feeling of comfort. At least I’ve faced myself in the dark watches and come away alive. Bruised, maybe, battered, but still here.
I’d call it a gift, but it’s paid for. And as Stephen King says, you get what you pay for, you own it, and sooner or later whatever you own comes home to roost.