A Sleepless Mind.
Nights like these are simply not made for sleeping.
Granted, the bed is never so welcoming as when the room is well chilled by the crisp night air. But the air is invigorating. Energizing. Vivifying. The sweet scent beckons me outside, so that is where I go. The cool is bracing, bringing out gooseflesh on the backs of my arms, something that feels like adrenaline follows. The peace, the isolation, and the darkness leave the senses sharpened. A heightened state of awareness and a feeling of restless vitality stir up discontent, perhaps because I seldom have this sharpness, and now I have nowhere to apply it. I settle down to read. There might be adventure out there somewhere, but probably not the kind I am hungry for. Books will have to do.
I act like I do not get cold; that is all show. On nights like tonight, I linger constantly on the edge of discomfort, not putting on my jacket for the sole reason of feeling the discomfort. It is not pleasant, but it is an interesting sensation and strong. You can never push the sensation from the mind entirely, but you can master yourself in spite of it. The cold is pushed to the back of the mind; it is a challenge, an art. Stupidity? Yes, probably some portion of that as well, but there is also discipline involved.
The quality of my work is always so much better when it is conducted in conditions like these; I do not read books, I inhale them, even as I inhale the scent of a juniper sprig that I just shredded into teeny-tiny pieces for reasons unknowable; not a labor, nor an effort, but natural. Perhaps it is the lack of distractions?
No. Heavens no. The books are just about all that can distract me from my thoughts on nights like these. The internet is ok, but simply does not have the power to sustain my attention span for any length of time. I am finding that blogging seems to perform a similar function, although it deals mainly with voicing my fumbling attempts to understand my own frame of mind. It also serves only as a distraction from the heavier concerns that weigh on the mind.
Unfortunately, nights like these--gorgeous, solitary, and all too brief--are perfect for attempting to contemplate issues like school, work, the future, and other things that are scary to contemplate while sober. Not that any one of them is to be dreaded, but rather, they are scary because I am young and still relatively inexperienced. I do not want to let anyone down, and naive though this sounds, I should dearly like to remain happy; a goal which seems to allude many with time.
I sit in the breeze and wonder whether the discomfort I feel comes from the coolness that is slowly creeping into my arms, or from the reality that money is much more important than I like to pretend it is, and that I do not want to spend my life fighting to keep it from feeling like the center of that life.
I walk in the breeze and beat myself up over could haves and should haves of years, months, weeks, days, and hours of yore. I forgive myself and pep talk myself into doing better next time. I pray. I was not always much of one for praying, but nights like these are good for reflection, for discovering what is wanted and needed, and realizing that there is no shame or childishness in asking our Father in Heaven for it.
And for all of that, the mood is not nearly so somber as it sounds. The clearheaded sharpness remains with me the whole time. The sense is not one of impending doom, but of anticipation. So I might fret a little is something particular is bugging me. I push it down and try to re-approach it from with some perspective. Does this always work? No. But I don't pretend to have all the answers here. I just try to sort things out.
So I take my time, turn things over in my mind. I think, worry and fret, reflect and remember, plan and plot, give rein to my imagination, and sit down and read a book so I don't drive myself insane. In the end, there is at least one thing that I have figured out...
Nights like these are simply not made for sleeping.
Granted, the bed is never so welcoming as when the room is well chilled by the crisp night air. But the air is invigorating. Energizing. Vivifying. The sweet scent beckons me outside, so that is where I go. The cool is bracing, bringing out gooseflesh on the backs of my arms, something that feels like adrenaline follows. The peace, the isolation, and the darkness leave the senses sharpened. A heightened state of awareness and a feeling of restless vitality stir up discontent, perhaps because I seldom have this sharpness, and now I have nowhere to apply it. I settle down to read. There might be adventure out there somewhere, but probably not the kind I am hungry for. Books will have to do.
I act like I do not get cold; that is all show. On nights like tonight, I linger constantly on the edge of discomfort, not putting on my jacket for the sole reason of feeling the discomfort. It is not pleasant, but it is an interesting sensation and strong. You can never push the sensation from the mind entirely, but you can master yourself in spite of it. The cold is pushed to the back of the mind; it is a challenge, an art. Stupidity? Yes, probably some portion of that as well, but there is also discipline involved.
The quality of my work is always so much better when it is conducted in conditions like these; I do not read books, I inhale them, even as I inhale the scent of a juniper sprig that I just shredded into teeny-tiny pieces for reasons unknowable; not a labor, nor an effort, but natural. Perhaps it is the lack of distractions?
No. Heavens no. The books are just about all that can distract me from my thoughts on nights like these. The internet is ok, but simply does not have the power to sustain my attention span for any length of time. I am finding that blogging seems to perform a similar function, although it deals mainly with voicing my fumbling attempts to understand my own frame of mind. It also serves only as a distraction from the heavier concerns that weigh on the mind.
Unfortunately, nights like these--gorgeous, solitary, and all too brief--are perfect for attempting to contemplate issues like school, work, the future, and other things that are scary to contemplate while sober. Not that any one of them is to be dreaded, but rather, they are scary because I am young and still relatively inexperienced. I do not want to let anyone down, and naive though this sounds, I should dearly like to remain happy; a goal which seems to allude many with time.
I sit in the breeze and wonder whether the discomfort I feel comes from the coolness that is slowly creeping into my arms, or from the reality that money is much more important than I like to pretend it is, and that I do not want to spend my life fighting to keep it from feeling like the center of that life.
I walk in the breeze and beat myself up over could haves and should haves of years, months, weeks, days, and hours of yore. I forgive myself and pep talk myself into doing better next time. I pray. I was not always much of one for praying, but nights like these are good for reflection, for discovering what is wanted and needed, and realizing that there is no shame or childishness in asking our Father in Heaven for it.
And for all of that, the mood is not nearly so somber as it sounds. The clearheaded sharpness remains with me the whole time. The sense is not one of impending doom, but of anticipation. So I might fret a little is something particular is bugging me. I push it down and try to re-approach it from with some perspective. Does this always work? No. But I don't pretend to have all the answers here. I just try to sort things out.
So I take my time, turn things over in my mind. I think, worry and fret, reflect and remember, plan and plot, give rein to my imagination, and sit down and read a book so I don't drive myself insane. In the end, there is at least one thing that I have figured out...
Nights like these are simply not made for sleeping.
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