It is well into the wee hours; the cat races after imaginary (I hope) prey throughout the house. Sleep eludes. I hear my husband snoring and one of the kids has a cough. I’ve tried tossing and turning; I’ve tried reading – historical fiction, usually a sure bet. All in vain. My eyes burn with fatigue but my brain won’t shut down.
Usually, when this happens, I can compose blog posts or entire chapters (ok, entire scenes) of The Novel while I wait for sleep to arrive but tonight, I thought I’d try something different. Tonight I will just write down all of the weird shit that is thwumping around in my tumble dryer of a brain. Here goes.
- Fleas, as in does Alyss have them?
- a woman’s name. A character perhaps of a future story. Her name is Tolly. Her father is Tom; her mother Molly. This girl’s parents think themselves very clever
- life insurance, as in could it ever be enough to see me through in the event of the unthinkable?
- what will ever become of me and this dream I chase through the shadows called writing?
- parenting, as in do I suck at it or am I normal?
- Fleas, as in do I have them? Why am I so freaking itchy?
- The Memory Palace – name of a book I saw in the bookstore tonight
- maybe the double shot latte at 7 pm wasn’t such a good idea
- why and how do languages evolve, as in: please – in English is so different from “bitter” in German. Weird.
- Fernando Torres’ hair cannot get more blond without him looking a little too much like Lady Gaga’s older brother and that would make me sad and slightly scared.
I’m still itchy. I’m still awake. The above are the thoughts that torment me. There will be more. I was really hoping for a good night’s sleep but then that is my hope every night. Yet, every night thoughts creep into my room like children used to creep in asking for a glass of water or to tell me they had a bad dream. “Mommy, I’m itchy.” Yeah, kid. Me too.
I have things to do tomorrow. I have chapters to write. I was hoping to write a lucid blog post. Now, the day will be spent careening from caffeine jolt to caffeine jolt with a quick, stolen nap somewhere in between. I will stumble through the day feeling as though I’ve been hit by a truck.
I wonder, as I am apt to do when itchy and exhausted, if this self-inflicted sleep mess is my way of sabotaging myself – like going on a diet and then buying a box of Oreos…”for the kids.”(more dubious parenting). Now my brain types “therapy.” “Anti-anxiety meds.”
I will never get to sleep if I don’t close my eyes. Great, now I’m hungry. Damn those Oreos.