I used to startle myself awake at 2:39 AM but lately I’ve been shown some mercy and my anxieties don’t begin until closer to 4:30. It’s dark enough that I have to wander around by memory until finally reaching my robe and the bedroom door and a way out of the room.

I’m not sure if that’s the darkest hour although I might understand what it is poetically and hope never to reach it. I would assume that chronologically it’s somewhere between the setting of the sun and the rising although once a snide architect corrected me and said the sun really doesn’t rise at all, it’s just an illusion of the rotation of the earth. I think that’s the last time I’ve seen or spoken to him.

I flipped thru the screens on the laptop while sitting in the farthest corner of the sofa so as not to wake anyone else. But trying to find some news to read is like dialing thru the static of an old AM radio with only the barest hints of music or thought.

Eventually I look up and notice that I can see the edges of the trees which means the light is coming back and that depresses me further since I’d been up too long and the rest of the day would be spent in a dull stupor. I wander back to the bedroom and then under the covers but sleep is as elusive as it was an hour ago and now disturbed even further by a dog digging for gold with her hind leg, shaking the bed in spiteful tremors.

The sun is rising. No matter what that damn architect said…

leighton detail from Cymon and Iphigenia
Fredereic Lieghton, 1864
oil on canvas

[painting via WikiArt…anxieties due primarily to genetics…]