The first night you stay up until 2am, you might find that your thoughts change, whatever type of person you are when fully rested and awake doesn’t apply to this time so deep beyond the witching hour.
With a modern literal meaning of “midnight,” the term witching hourrefers to the time of night when creatures such as witches, demons, and ghosts are thought to appear and to be at their most powerful and black magic to be most effective. Witching hour – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The first night, you feel a sense of power, “hey look at me!” your mind whispers “I’m a grown up and don’t have to make good decisions if I don’t want to!”
The second night, “What’s wrong with me?!” is the thought that echoes in your mind… and dances a merry jig along with plans for tomorrow. This is perhaps a negotiation phase “I’ll just take a nap tomorrow” or “Perhaps if I skip working out…” and pure denial “I’ll go to bed early tomorrow night.
The third night “Look… I’m almost productive” though more accurately it looks like this “look i”m almst productve” and it’s arguable that after such a long sweet sip from the sleep deprivation bucket, you begin to taste the dregs.
The third night (okay, fourth night but I’m trying to prove a clever point) you might find yourself posting on your blog about deep thoughts at 2am… there’s a monster at the end of this book.
We can blame it on the pillow, or blame it on my plight, perhaps a curse for days gone by that sends the poems in the night.
Across the tides of midnight,
I sail the lonely sea,
Across the shadows of the dark,
my sanity is free,
it whispers from the distant past,
and tells me that it’s gone,
it whimpers through the silent house,
and sings a pleasing song,
I grasp for it and like a shade,
I feel it slip away,
I strain to find it here at last,
and see the light of day,
then bask inside the ‘here and now’
… this is a better way,
I sail the lonely sea of night,
and fear that dawn will come,
Imagining this long lost fight,
then fear I will succumb,
We wander through the lonely sea,
so still our mind grows numb,
we wonder what the present holds,
but know the night’s for some.
Some nights, when all the house is sleeping, I lay in my bed, and hear words that rhyme, and I wonder, is it a curse, or a blessing? But sometimes they won’t let me sleep.
The soft sound of children laughing echoes through the halls, and I can’t help but smile, when the little footsteps fall.
“I can’t rhyme!” I cried to the girls, in mock anxiety, “It always comes out wrong!”
I’ll show you:
“The moon in the sky, it makes me … tell fibs!”
“I told the joke to the giraffe,
He couldn’t help but … giggle!”
“NO DADDY! He Laughed!”
“It was my knee,
I hit on the … big branch”
“I have so much love,
up here far … higher, than I was a moment before.”
To which they laugh, and laugh, until their words don’t even make sense. It’s become a nightly routine. But there’s no joy to share like the love I find … with them.