Sleep

Some days sleeping is underrated.

Insomnia attack this evening, and so I sit up late knitting on the baby blanket. I taught myself how to purl continental style as opposed to the English style that I usually use (check out which hand the yarn is in, that's the difference). I was ridiculously proud of myself for this. Maybe I'll show off tomorrow at knitting.

On my "insomnia": it tends to hit the most on days that were not particularly good. I wonder if it's some kind of protection for the next day; maybe if I stay up late I'll sleep in and miss most of a bad day tomorrow. Maybe it's just that bad days create panic and panic makes me tense and tension keeps me from sleeping.

At any rate, "Murphy Brown" is on the television, which tells me it must be very late indeed and Roxie has gone to bed on her own. It's actually Wednesday. I am going to go sleep a bit, if I can. Maybe I can miss most of tomorrow. :-) (No knitting until 6:30!)

I am reminded of the line of poetry that has stuck with me the longest. I don't even remember what poem it is from, but we read it in my first "Intro to Poetry" class. The line, which in and of itself is perhaps short of brilliant, comes up all the time in my head. This is a reflection on me, I'm sure. It was in a poem about the beauty of spending a day in a hammock. The poem seemed joyful and then we get to the last line, where the poet should reflect on the beauty of the ocean, or the way the wind whips across his face, but instead: "I have wasted my life."

Indeed. I hope to waste mine, too, if only sleep would come. (Maybe if I had a hammock?)