In the middle of the night

I woke up trembling. My sheets were half on the floor from tossing and turning so much. A nightmare. That's all. That's all. A vicious nightmare full of attacks and weak attempts to fight them off and a scary stranger and evil intentions and a horrid, horrid smile. I can only hope that my nightmares are not prophetic in any way.

I won't dwell on that. It is too real even now. I have checked my door twice. An entire glass of water in one long gulp. Then another.

And I know I can't get back to sleep again. I know this night's sleep is shot. I could lie in bed for hours reliving that nightmare and not sleeping a wink, getting out of bed tired and lethargic, unproductive during the day.

Or I could just get up.

I sit at my desk. Turn the desk light on. Put on a song. And the rain starts. And slowly, slowly, my fear recedes. I even sit with my back to the door (and don't glance around more than twice).

And I let the night sink in, working in the light of a solitary lamp while the rain patters down from the dark sky, building a little cocoon of warmth and safety with nothing but a lamp, some air, and a book. I sit sipping some ice cold water, pulling the blanket closer around myself, looking up from my desk at the first rays of sunlight creeping in through the window.

Time for bed.

It isn't very good

In the dark dark woods

In the middle of the night

In the pale moonlight...

- Enid Blyton

From a Noddy book (now critiqued as being racist and sexist and all kinds of things, but I cannot forget the hours of enjoyment derived from spot-on statements like these when, as a five-year-old I knew nothing about racism or sexism and all I knew was that oh yes, it isn't very good indeed in the dark dark woods in the middle of the night in the pale moonlight).