sleep

Strange how unattractive sleep has become. In this year of increased sobriety, the tendency to fall asleep fully dressed has diminished. (It returned last night after a rare bottle and a half of wine). Insomnia has receded, even if it hasn't quite thrown in the towel. Sleep asserts its rights. But in the hours after midnight, as sleep creeps up, the instinct is to keep it at bay. As though the unconscious is not that safe haven it used to be. As though, in dream, some jaguar might sink its jaws into your neck. Every space these days, and the spaces keep changing, is like some night spent on the plain. There are shadows out there, smothered in moonlight. The fire needs to be tended, kept alive.

All balderdash. For this is not the plain; the stars are out of sight; there is a roof over my head and no real peril. There is no fire to tend. Just an instinct.