Sleep When I’m Dead…

Sleep is the enemy. I would love to be one of those people who says, “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” But I get tired. Not tired enough to sleep but tired nonetheless.

Night presents itself thusly: In a chair, in front of a computer, vacuuming (a favorite of OCDs who love the lines in the carpet–of course we’d prefer wood floors for hygiene and ease of cat hairball pick up but such is life). Eyes and body say it’s time for bed. Wash face, moisturize, brush teeth. Snuggle next to a cat or two and close eyes.

“Did you send that email?” says Brain.

“Leave me alone, Asshat,” say I.

“But you did leave a candle lit in the kitchen.”

“Leave me.”

“You left some things off your list for tomorrow. Like make more money. Get new clients. By the way, did you call that guy you met at coffee?”

“I mean it.”

“If you died in your sleep, what would people say about you? Did you feed the cats? Did you know the next installment of Feud is about Diana and Charles?”

“I know right? I can hardly wait. I remember exactly where I was when I heard the news. But those princes–how great are they? Wait. Stop. Enough.”

Time creeps. Obsessing over both the important and the trivial continues. I’ve willed myself not to check the time. If I do, the countdown begins. If I go to sleep now, I’ll get five hours, four hours, oh shit. Alarm rings and I rise from my once beloved coccoon to curse the morning Gods.

When I wake between 3 and 4 a.m., I find myself quite spry, even a go-getter. Past 6 a.m. and the zombie apocalypse invades my babbling, incoherent bag of bones. Fashioning a 4 a.m. start to the day finds me slumped in a comfy chair by noon. Tried going to bed earlier but then I miss The Housewives and feel all FOMO-ish so that’s not an option.

Searching for blog matter, marketing proposal wording and press releases ceases all together mid afternoon once lunch settles in for its nap. But the brain turns to high gear when darkness falls and I’m in my underwear.

It’s suggested to write down thoughts that come in the night. When I can read what’s written in the pitch, it all comes out moron and my simpleton shows. Thoughts that seem revolutionary in the dark include dialogue that makes no sense, weirdly colored shoes and broken pearl strands.

According to Saul Bellow, ““You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write.”

Where is Saul when the brain says to ride a donkey while I vacuum wearing an apron and serving tea?

Yes, of course, the cups are exquisite. Just like the ones JK Rowling used when she hosted Oprah. Remember? Never mind; another middle of the night conversation. Pfft.

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