Sometimes it comes in a rush, dunking me under in a cloudless, dreamless black that shrouds me until morning. Other times, it hovers, playing with me. When sleep hovers in this way, like a shadow or a Puckish geist, then every sound is amplified and every thought seems to stomp through my brain. There is no gradual “falling asleep”, but instead there is a thrashing into sleep. And a battle ensues with that day’s happenings or perhaps a restless careening from one memory to another. The worst sound in the world during such epic sleep wars is the ticking clock. The constant reminder, the rejoinder to the wakeful and stomping thoughts, that morning will be here soon and you will be abused by sleeplessness all the following day. The sheets slip by me as I move on my narrow, single mat on the floor. There is not a lot of room for error here. Too much movement and I end up on the floor, next to my empty beer bottle (or on top of it) and paperwork and books. The fall isn’t far, after all it is just a mat, but nonetheless falling out of bed is never pleasant. There is something inherently unsettling about falling out of one’s bed. Sleep should be still and deep as a pond in shade. The beautiful creatures crash around beneath the surface, but the stillness of the place is intact. The wasteland of wakefulness when the body is tired but the mind won’t quit. Junk churns out of impossibly twisted mental meanderings. In one moment I am wondering if a mosquito is overhead and in another moment I attend to a conversation I had with a student earlier in the day. Suddenly the neighbor dog barks and I am forced to recollect I have to take Bella to the vet regarding the bump on her head. This thought sends me into a tailspin on Bella’s health, mortality, love, belonging and so on. Sleep is elusive in moments such as these, no doubt, which marks my longing all the more profoundly. I sink down, covered in feather duvet up to my chin, curled on my side, wondering when this most natural of acts became so damn difficult.
