Nothing happens in the hours just before the dawn, but my brain doesn’t know that. Peeved by it’s incessant activity, I try to lull it to sleep with soothing visions of fields drenched in lavender. I take deep breaths and imagine myself drifting aimlessly on a calm, cerulean sea. The warmth of the honey-golden sun warms my breastplate and seeps in to the recesses of my shadowed heart. For a moment, I am sun-kissed and soothed.
Just as sleep touches my eyes again, a warning alarm shouts out: “I don’t want to die”! Fully awake now, I think of my mother who died at 52. The memory of her half-smile brings a full smile to my face. I want to stay there in that moment with her. I desperately want to hear her chuckle at an old joke that is tired to the rest of us, but still brings her true joy. I want to remain in that memory but my mind is too busy doing it’s basic math. 52-34=18. I’m suddenly at the bottom of my cerulean sea with a cinder block-time-trap weighing me down.
In the following hours: I will stare at the traffic light outside my window and count down it’s color changes (5-4-3-2-1 Red, 5-4-3-2-1 Green). I will watch a squirrel enjoy it’s acorn plunder, as he watches me, watching him. I will note the shifting sun as it creates various shadows on my wall, through the accordion blinds.
After sleep eventually finds me, I will awaken to another day, and be grateful that it’s there to meet me.