A soft mist grows

I stare up at the ceiling in the darkness. Once again I cannot sleep. I try to imagine myself on the beach, imagine myself sleeping, imagine myself sitting by a warm crackling fire. I try to imagine out the solutions to my problems, both real and perceived. I try to imagine fantastical scenarios. And I stare up at the ceiling in the darkness.

Tick tock, tick tock, tick...silence. I took out the batteries. Crick Crick Crick Crick. Can't stop the crickets.

I get out of bed, I walk around the house. If only I lived in an old and mysterious castle, I'd hobnob with the ghosts.

And deep inside I see it. Curled up into a little ball. Inside my very insides. Soft and deep and dense. Small yet. But there, every day, there, making its presence felt. I catch my breath sometimes on this little misty ball of dissatisfaction. I try to ignore it. I will it away. I put a gloss of happy on it. And still it sits, deep, there, inside me.

I stare up at the ceiling in the darkness. Finally I let my mind wander where I'm afraid to let it go. Maybe making a list of everything keeping me awake at night will help. Maybe I can make a counter list to remind myself of everything that goes into the happy gloss.

I sleep.

I wake up.

I have breakfast.

I catch my breath.

And I know it hasn't gone away.