From the throes of a quasi-sleepless night, I understandably awaken quite tired... but at thirty-two I do not feel the sagging weight of loss, as I once did when younger. I used to wake up irritable not having the sleep I felt I deserved.
The years, instead of robbing me of vigor--once touted to me as inevitable--have bestowed int he place of sleep a wry humor and undercurrent of energy not previously known. I find that Insomnia's wraith-like countenance is rather amusing, allowing for a low chuckle--or two--as I make my way up the hall.
The coffee is ground, the water measured and poured; the basket closed with a final tap on top. The garden lies out back, beckoning; there is no time for regretful whining, nor for miserable thoughts. Indeed, it has been such a long while since I've indulged in these, I frankly doubt my current ability to recognize either one. Even if I was prone to inner complaints, with four young children in our home, such whining would prove fruitless, methinks.
Sleep is nonetheless precious to me; I enjoy its nearly-liquid consistency... its enveloping arms that bestow such rest, such dreams of vibrant color. I'll take what parts of it are given and work with what's left over, gently wringing from each day the most my hands are able.
