My friend Insomnia wants to see me.
Again.
And she won’t let me alone until I’ve woken up, taken water and wondered enough about the meaning of life.Or written about it.
Again.
It’s always at 3 in the morning.
See that light on the window there? That’s me.
(Source Pinterest)
I’ve learned over the years that each type of insomnia has its hour. 3 in the morning, it’s the anxiety hour insomnia. Well, I do not see why she still wants to see me, because I already have come to terms with the fear of Death, and it had taken me a long time, but I have shifted from a career in marketing and/or the rollercoaster of employment happiness to a writing job (not yet really financially satisfying, but I am working on it). The articles I write about TV series and cinema in a newsletter for the French community are appreciated, and my book of collected short stories is about to be out (in editing). Everything else is fine. So I do not see the reason for the 3 am insomnia.
The only explanation would be that since I have become acquainted with this strange phenomena, when I was 14 (I’ve reached the blessed years of mid-life crisis), it has stuck around my sleep without respite. I’ve begun a book about a woman, expatriate, who falls into a coma, in the heart of the night, probably to exorcise my fears. I’ve written poems while the moon glowed gloomily or when she was as thin as a thread through my window, I’ve skyped with my sister or friends ,surprised to hear of me so early in their European daytime hours.
I never intended in the first place to talk much about me, my life, my age, being a mother caring for her children, or her significant other. I intended to write about coffee and its contribution in the writing world, and about TV series and films noirs. Maybe it’s not enough. Maybe others write better about those subjects or maybe I should post more of what I write. I am shy, you see.
I feel fragile sometimes, because I have not yet found why my sleep is so brittle. I have found relief in meditation and exercise, when I sleep two night without disturbance, I feel happy and refreshed, and no circles under my eyes. It started, I suppose, with the difficult relationship I encountered with my mother, which has not particularly been easy. Unlike her, I do not relish conflict, and I leave the battle field ASAP when she drags me there. I’ve started meditating and apply some changes in my life within myself because I do not want for my children to experiment a “yelling and yield management” of our relationships.
I chose kindness and understanding, I’ve chosen to speak words of care and love instead of harsh words. She’s wounded, she wounded me, she hurt me. But I have chosen to heal. And I did.
Maybe I should post more about myself, or more of my writings.
Please, give me a clue, I feel too fragile to think.
I should redefine the tagline above, because I do not want to write about coffee or films noirs. Or I lust find a more catchy name “cafecultureaddict”, really. Isn’t it a bit weird? Besides, I’m no coffee expert. I like the scent, which I find intoxicating, I take one coffee a day, but I prefer tea, I get great amount of caffeine from dear Earl Grey.
Last year, I considered volunteering at the hospital near my home, the idea came back this year. I’ve already visited people in hospital, old persons, whose family did not come to see anymore. It was heartbreaking. I was 21 at the time. I am stronger now. And still a bit fragile, sometimes.
It’s our human paradox, I guess.
Good day , did you like my poem “Textual”, BTW?
Peace and care,
F