[from last night’s post-midnight musings…]
There is something undeniably romantic – albeit a tad irksome – about one’s inability to fall asleep, particularly if it is raining, which it is. You lay in bed, eyes wide open to the dark nothingness – which is in reality a whole world unto itself – or fitfully closed to another entirely different stark nothingness, darkness. You may lay awake, your mind a blank slate except for the awareness of being awake – the deaf and dumb world around you. Or your mind may be rushing, racing full of thoughts, wandering (or, indeed, zipping) to and fro. You may lay awake and ponder one’s life, view it as an outsider might, and so view your varying different paths.
It is an interesting thing to lie awake and feel that you are alone in the world – though not in a despicable way, not in the least; it is more the feeling of self-inclusion in a special club – as the rest of the world goes by or slumbers on, slumbering as you, and your eyes, so yearn to, but the mind does not allow it.
Then, slowly, as the clock ticks unmercifully on and the rain patters gently on the roof outside your window (and your wrist cramps from writing what your mind requires), your lids finally, blessedly, begin to fall of their own accord and your head sinks to the pillow. Sleep has come.