Monday, 11 April 2011

In the early hours.

Hush your chatter, young lady. You find yourself here sometimes, and admit it, you kinda enjoy it. These random occasional nights bring you back to those months of insomnia and midnight conversations.
The weight of heavy weariness pressing against your forehead. the restless shivers travelling along your fingers and legs. The pain behind your eyelids with every slow blink. The way your bed's soft comfortable folds feel like a prison. The way you can't avoid watching the slow sliding of minutes from one to the next. So slow.
The thoughts that run in dizzying circles round and round in your head. Memory after worry after wish after sorrow after memory. A flashing merry-go-round with music that repeats itself over and over, refusing to give you any rest.
Your body and head are heavy with desire for sleep.
All of this you recognize. Like an old friend. There is some strange comfort in it's familiarity. You recognise how you'd be if you allowed yourself. Up in the early hours, ink on your fingers or paint under you nails, obsessive in your desire to escape the throbbing, unavoidable irritation of inability to sleep. Or pacing the floors of the silent, cold house, listening to every creak, alert to every sound. But that habit is one too easy to slip into.
Oh, stop this inane chatter. God give me rest.

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