To Sleep

My reliable friend has changed.

Used to be sleep was a plunge into a sustained amnesiac void; now it’s a series of surface dives off the bed-raft of Charlie tugging at the covers and Sam’s even breathing.

I squint at the digital clock on the bookshelf, numbers flashing red. 1:15, 2:07, 2:40, 3:55.

For some reason, disrupted sleep doesn’t trouble me beyond the annoyance I feel about the crap that comes with getting old, like foot cramps and acid reflux, even though I used to rely on slumber the way you rely on the things you know you can rely on. Now, every night is like a flakey friend you can’t help but love anyway.

The void of yore was nice because I have no memory of it aside from waking refreshed, but somnus interruptus has its own whimsical charm.  I take comfort in being brought again and again into the knowledge that I am in the same warm, soft space as Sam and Charlie. In the dark, writing topics surface, like how my sleep has changed, and how I feel about it.

These days consciousness is loath to abandon me for long, or maybe I’m afraid to let consciousness roam too far. But that’s okay. That day will come when I will sleep uninterrupted and uninterruptible, but for now, I’m okay with nagging existential awareness circling back periodically to nudge me, 1:15, 2:07, 2:20, 3:55, psssst, girl. You’re alive.