Friday, February 25, 2005

Thoughts of the Night

The nighttime is the worst time. Each thought finds its twisting, churning way from your head to your stomach, where it lodges –just sitting there- until the next little worrisome idea finds its home in the same spot. There they gather in a writhing, twisted knot, and you are left staring in the darkness at the ceiling, your eyes playing every image of the past, every possible frightening future, upon the darkness above. It is as though there were never any good times, that these indelible images have removed from existence any beautiful idea. You try to recall any beloved face, a memory of a happy time, but instead the list of your failures since then marches in an endless retinue of fear and doubt. Hours pass, the sheets grow hot, tangled around you like a shroud, and still you find sleep evasive. Every sound is an irritant; the tick of a clock, the dripping faucet, murmuring sounds from a radio down the hallway, and even as you rage inwardly at the futility of lying there, hopeless tears make trails upon your cheeks. And then, softly creeping, so unobtrusive that you don’t even remember it happening, merciful sleep comes.

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