Awake at 4am

The nightmares don’t go away. They settle into the night alongside the sounds of gentle snoring and the shifting water off the darkened fishtank. Nighttime is loud, and ominous; not for the darkness, but for the stillness. The time that stretches between midnight and daybreak is infinite, unwavering, unchanging. I sit in it, sometimes trying to fill the void with noise, because the slip of closing eyelids is enough to fill my ears with the pounding of blood. Until exhaustion breaks my back and I have no choice but to curl up into sleep that pulls the sheets off the edges of a borrowed bed. Because nightmares become day-mares and I wake up to another lost day and more grey at temples too young for the stress of age. My mind is the monster under the bed, and memories feeding it’s ravenous appetites are more easy to hide while awake to be aware of their arrival. The silence is easier to face. Darkness and shadows of a still world more easy to navigate than explaining the terror of closing ones eyes. The harsh stress on my body an acceptable consequence, a knowing consequence, in comparison. The darkest part of night is brighter than the darkest part of my mind, and I find myself almost 30, afraid of what is darker than night. Praying the sandman misses me in oversight. So I listen to the silence of a shifting time.

It’s 4am and I wait for the sunrise of another lost day. 

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