Insomnia is a flat-out demon from Hell itself. It is also, on occasion, a blessing. The constant, wearing fatigue is always with you, but the quiet in the night when all the world sleeps is also the only alone time I ever really have. I chat with friends, read, spend time in prayer (unfortunately not as much of this as I should). It's a high price to pay for solitude.
There is a beautiful cacophony in the slumber of others. I hear my dog snore occasionally. As I write this, a fly is dying somewhere in my kitchen...I hear the intermittent angry buzzing of an insect whose flight has failed. The condenser coil of the refrigerator kicks on with a metallic shudder. I peek into my daughter's room to hear her heavy, measured breathing. Between these notes of nighttime is a lovely, booming quiet. Do you know that sound...the quiet so profound as to be almost tangible? I like to close my eyes and feel the sounds, the buzz of the fly and the snoring dog and the crickets outside and the adolescent dream-sighs and the silence. It's thick like a blanket, almost rough on the back of your neck.
During the nights I cannot sleep, the blanket-quiet smothers me, letting my mind race in the soundless spaces. At other times it is almost a welcome friend, absorbing me into a place where the random din of life after dark is a familiar comfort.
I want to sleep, and the angry dying fly is nearing its own. I will sink into the pillow, imagine blue sky melting into blue water, and count the cadence of the waves. Perhaps I can float into the tidewaters of a pleasant dream.
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