Insomnia
In the dark, quiet cloak of night I am alone. The screaming children and screeching birds have silenced themselves for sleep, but I will have very little for myself tonight. There is something so perfect and peaceful about the darkness outside, and I don't want to go to bed, even if I could somehow force myself to close my eyes and turn off the constant hum of my thoughts.
Outside my office window, a few lights flicker in the windows of my neighbors, some who share my inability to shut off and others who are coming from or going to work. We are working class poor and so are they. We do what needs to be done in the harsh, bright light of day to achieve these moments at night, when responsibilities can be put on the back burner and the constant rumble of where to go and what to do finally decrescendos into a subtle whisper.
The crowded, often unbearably active roads nearby are empty, illuminated every few hundred feet by a dull, yellow streetlight. If I stop and listen, the slow, steady rhythm of a train can be heard in the distance. No train whistle -- it's too late for that now -- just the cold, metal wheels sliding along on the tracks. The usual noise from the highway is gone. Even the criminals are home and asleep. From the next room, I can hear my husband's deep breathing and occasional snores, then the shuffling of blankets and pillows as he tosses and turns while unconscious. I passed up laying down beside him tonight as I was sure my mind would not allow anything but turmoil until I got up again.
I try not to think about the four hours I have between now and when my first alarm goes off. My cell phone will ring and cling and clang until I sleepily press the button on its side, hopefully with my eyes open and ready to put my feet on the floor to start my day. But I do not want to think of such things right now. The darkness is too inviting. The privacy, inside and out of my home, is too appealing. The thought of the fog my mind will be in come morning will only depress me. For now, I can be happy by myself, wasting time and writing at my dimly lit computer desk.
Outside my office window, a few lights flicker in the windows of my neighbors, some who share my inability to shut off and others who are coming from or going to work. We are working class poor and so are they. We do what needs to be done in the harsh, bright light of day to achieve these moments at night, when responsibilities can be put on the back burner and the constant rumble of where to go and what to do finally decrescendos into a subtle whisper.
The crowded, often unbearably active roads nearby are empty, illuminated every few hundred feet by a dull, yellow streetlight. If I stop and listen, the slow, steady rhythm of a train can be heard in the distance. No train whistle -- it's too late for that now -- just the cold, metal wheels sliding along on the tracks. The usual noise from the highway is gone. Even the criminals are home and asleep. From the next room, I can hear my husband's deep breathing and occasional snores, then the shuffling of blankets and pillows as he tosses and turns while unconscious. I passed up laying down beside him tonight as I was sure my mind would not allow anything but turmoil until I got up again.
I try not to think about the four hours I have between now and when my first alarm goes off. My cell phone will ring and cling and clang until I sleepily press the button on its side, hopefully with my eyes open and ready to put my feet on the floor to start my day. But I do not want to think of such things right now. The darkness is too inviting. The privacy, inside and out of my home, is too appealing. The thought of the fog my mind will be in come morning will only depress me. For now, I can be happy by myself, wasting time and writing at my dimly lit computer desk.