Wrote this one awhile back. Seems apt to share at this hour of the morning.


I sit on the back porch
It is very late
Or very early
Depending on one’s perspective
I’ve been counting sheep for hours
To no avail
I’ve never understood
Why sheep?
I think I’ll have a smoke
No one will know at this hour
I watch the smoke plumes
Fade into the night air
Like the hope of sleep
I hope the nicotine will relax me
Calm my thoughts
Slow my pulse
But, as the cigarette turns to ash
I feel heightened
Even the forest is quiet
I’m alone with the hiss
Of the cigarette burning out
Without that small task
I’m navigating sleeplessness again
My body begs for reprieve
My mind rejects it
I think it is afraid to dream
Guess I’ll have another smoke
And listen to the sun come up


Sometimes the problem is stress. Sometimes the problem is anxiety. Sometimes, it’s pms. I think, we often fail to realize, though, how we sabatoge ourselves in these moments. Before we get in bed, we’re afraid of all the things we’ll remember and think on when the lights go out. Inevitably, we cannot find peace, despite ZZZquil, sedatives, or random nature sounds playlists on Amazon. We’re too worried about the next day and therefore promote our own dysfunction for that day. Then, we wonder what happened. Then, there’s more anxiety. More depression. More sleepless nights . Truly, some of us exist in a perpetual, vicious cycle.

I’m in bed with the lights on. I’ve been productive for the last few hours, creating accounts, updating spreadsheets, winning arguments with the voices in my head. Now, I’m eating açai sorbet.

I’ve no porch to sit on and smoke. So, I’ll await the sheep I’m supposed to count, the sheep of an age old remedy I simply cannot fathom. Right now, I’m lying here wondering what better things those furry bastards had to do then put me to sleep. Probably out getting hammered with Mr. Sandman.

Toodles and (maybe) sweet dreams.

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