Once more in the night
Waxing philosophical at 3:00 AM, I listen to the sounds of breathing around me. A loud grunt to the left of me as the hubby rolls over; the soft, sighing snore of a cat who has made a nest between our pillows. The traffic noise has long ago died down in Williamsburg, and only the faintest hum can be heard from the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway far off in the distance. The heating kicks on, a rush of air and a hiss, but soon ends. For the most part, that hour is dedicated only to quiet things, aside from the churning in my mind. The clock moves slow at 3:00 AM.
My mind is relentlessly pacing through events and choices of the past, then racing off into doubts about the future. Within my thoughts time has become elastic, and events of twenty years ago have the same sting they did when they occurred. With an effort I wrench my mind in new directions, leaping the barbed wire of old miseries and trying to harness constructive thought. What's the next step? What should I be focused on, now that I am where I am? Conditions, excuses, plans, expenses, strategies - all to be sorted through as the night slowly passes by overhead.
Briefly sleep reclaims me, yet I find myself shocked awake soon by a vision of blood. My own. My dreams are as uneasy as I am, and some corner of my mind is not ready for me to settle into rest. With renewed consciousness the wheel begins to spin again, with no further resolution than just moments ago apparent. Through the cracks in the blinds I can see the faintest hints of gray appear on the eastern horizon; a cat leaps from the floor onto my gut, demanding my attention after apparently sensing my consciousness. For a while I scratch him under the chin, then shoo him away in search of oblivion.
Once more I grab my thoughts and force them in a new direction. A fantasy I offer to the gods of sleep, walking a city of my creation where what I wish could be true is. The me, the man laying here in the bed is no longer present. Just the scenery, the tour of another world utterly dependent on me for existence; a world that will die utterly when I do. For a while I wander without a plan, revisiting old haunts and familiar things, and smiling at the electric sky. As so often before the gods finally accept this offering, and without transition I pass from unreality to unconsciousness at last. When next my eyes open it is to the sun in all its painful glory searing my eyelids as the hubby pulls open the blinds and lets a new day in.
As often before, as I gather my thoughts I wonder about my mental creation. As I lay dying, will that be a path of comfort to me, something to hold on to when all else fades? Though unlikely, it is a comforting thought in its own way. The final haze of narcotic sleep before all is gone would be less lonely if I walked the city of dreams.
My mind is relentlessly pacing through events and choices of the past, then racing off into doubts about the future. Within my thoughts time has become elastic, and events of twenty years ago have the same sting they did when they occurred. With an effort I wrench my mind in new directions, leaping the barbed wire of old miseries and trying to harness constructive thought. What's the next step? What should I be focused on, now that I am where I am? Conditions, excuses, plans, expenses, strategies - all to be sorted through as the night slowly passes by overhead.
Briefly sleep reclaims me, yet I find myself shocked awake soon by a vision of blood. My own. My dreams are as uneasy as I am, and some corner of my mind is not ready for me to settle into rest. With renewed consciousness the wheel begins to spin again, with no further resolution than just moments ago apparent. Through the cracks in the blinds I can see the faintest hints of gray appear on the eastern horizon; a cat leaps from the floor onto my gut, demanding my attention after apparently sensing my consciousness. For a while I scratch him under the chin, then shoo him away in search of oblivion.
Once more I grab my thoughts and force them in a new direction. A fantasy I offer to the gods of sleep, walking a city of my creation where what I wish could be true is. The me, the man laying here in the bed is no longer present. Just the scenery, the tour of another world utterly dependent on me for existence; a world that will die utterly when I do. For a while I wander without a plan, revisiting old haunts and familiar things, and smiling at the electric sky. As so often before the gods finally accept this offering, and without transition I pass from unreality to unconsciousness at last. When next my eyes open it is to the sun in all its painful glory searing my eyelids as the hubby pulls open the blinds and lets a new day in.
As often before, as I gather my thoughts I wonder about my mental creation. As I lay dying, will that be a path of comfort to me, something to hold on to when all else fades? Though unlikely, it is a comforting thought in its own way. The final haze of narcotic sleep before all is gone would be less lonely if I walked the city of dreams.