Feet Under the Covers at 3 AM
I have a nagging feeling that refuses to go away, no matter what I do. It is a realization that I keep on shrugging off like a persistent bee hovering annoyingly over my shoulder in all its buzzing glory, falsely believing that if I ignore it long enough, it will change its mind and leave me alone.
At times I try to lure it onto alternative paths or detours as a distraction tactic, not unlike waving a bunch of shiny keys in front of a cooing baby, metal glinting in the kitchen light as he tries to grab it in his chubby fist, gurgling in benign happiness.
Momentarily it is fooled. But as twilight drains day of its color, its gray pallor deepening into the blackness of night, this truth will creep up to my bed to lie soundlessly on the pillow next to mine, watching the back of my disheveled head with patient eyes. It returns to its solid, undiluted and unbribed form that nudges groggy undesirable elements awake: fear, worry, trepidation.
Being human breaks a limitation, isn’t that how it goes? You are never more human than in the middle of the night, lying awake in the inky darkness, all your fears looming over you, crowding close. Stripped of rational sense only the facade of daylight can provide, trying to escape for even a scant precious moments with both feet tucked firmly under the covers, as sleep finally, sympathetically pulls you under.
