Dear Bedtime

Dear Bedtime,

Hey - it's me again. I'm writing this in the dark as you lay under my covers waiting for me. You are calling to me, telling me to get off the stupid computer and just join you already. Trust me, there's nothing I'd like more right now than to snuggle down with you and fall asleep, but I have to write this.

Sometimes life comes in between two people, even when they want to be together, and right now is one of those times, my sweet Bedtime. I've got this blog, for one thing. I also have this annoying alertness that keeps me from joining you. It's not really insomnia, but it's a sort of dazed awakeness that tells me that, even if I try to be with you, sleep is not going to come.

When I was a kid, this would be a good time for my mom to fix me up a nice mug-ful of hot milk. A little bit of sugar, some nutmeg, and warm comfort would ease into my blood like a sore athlete easing into a hot tub. My whole body would buzz with security and something I can only describe as complete contentment, and I would climb back into bed. Closing my eyes, I would just doze and relish that heavenly feeling until sleep overtook me.

And it's not like I couldn't fix myself a mug of hot milk right now - but a lot of the magic is gone, now. I blame part of it on my time living in Tanzania when I was spoiled with real fresh milk. Real milk straight from the cow (and boiled, of course) beats the hell out of our commercialized, pasteurized imitation, and I can't help but think about that every time I try to drink hot milk back here in the States. The other half of the lost magic is the simple fact of lost childhood. Too much awareness of the fucked-up-ness of the world we live in tends to erode life's magic. No to say that there's none left, but it's certainly less now.

So what shall I do? Write a bit. Listen to mildly dark music and ponder the realities of life that keep me from being with you right now. I'll come to you eventually, but it won't be the same. Not like those wonderful times when I lie in bed with my feet covered and my blanket tucked under my chin, revelling in the sheer joy of being with you and knowing that I get to sleep for a chunk of time.

Sometimes I like to think that that's what Paul Simon was referring to when he sang of "darkness (his) old friend." Wouldn't it be a lot sweeter if he was talking about the comforting darkness of you, Bedtime?

I thought you would appreciate that thought.

I hope you are sleeping well, and I will join you shortly.

Sweet Dreams,
CVT