It’s late. Your tired. You replay all the things that happened in that day wishing you’d been smarter, or nicer, or happier, or wiser, or quieter, or anything really apart from what you were…
It’s late, you’re tired. You manage to make some scran from the scraps in your fridge and turn on the telly hoping you’ll find a programme that’s smarter, or wiser, or funnier, or anything apart from what it is.
It’s later, you’re more tired, you open your laptop looking for something to make you feel better or happier, or wiser, online, only to find, that everyone seems to be smarter, or happier, or more in love, or having more fun…
It’s later, you’re more tired, and more awake, and more asleep as your numb fingers scroll through others lives, others times, drink more wine it might help you sleep through.
Its probably late. But I don’t care about time anymore I’m just looking for anything to turn off the switch in my head as I go over and over and talk myself down, and sink further and further and drown a little bit more in this rather moreish red wine.
It’s late. Probably. Maybe it’s bedtime. We summon the energy to take off our clothes and maybe even put on pyjamas and climb into bed in the hope our thoughts will climb out of our head and rest on our pillows for just a few hours until the alarm bells chime for another morning.
Its late. Definitely. My mind won’t wind down. My thoughts and ideas keep swimming around making me unable to sleep an escape from the days past events sure of the idea that I definitely should have been smarter or funnier or cooler, or I shouldn’t listen to what they said, and that reminds of that time…
That time two years ago that I can’t forget, when the badness indented and pokes its head out the threaten my sleep, for a week, for a month, for a year…
Or that time four years ago which was the bad time before that, that clings onto my heart like the oil on ocean, and keeps me awake tonight, why tonight? Why won’t it stop? Why can’t I shut up? I just want to sleep till tomorrow and forget over my morning cup of coffee.
So this is my love letter. To the emotionally astute. As we run our marathons and run face first into the brutish nuisance of lack of sleep and anxiety and our dreams run away from us to keep us awake replaying over and over our past mistakes.
So this is my love letter. To the emotionally astute. To the ones who stay awake with you until 6 in the morning replaying shared past events, or our painful
indents, and shine hope on the future, because you’ve been there too, and are an example yourself of how some make it through.
So this is my love letter, to the emotionally astute. To the ones who are through, or the ones who are still climbing, and ticking and hoping and dreaming, and clicking and fretting with their thoughts never leaving, knowing that I’d stay up happily until 6,10,12 tomorrow the next day for you, if it helps. If it works, if we play ping pong with your thoughts, settling in on the rythym.
So this is my thanks from one astute to another, to the ones who have listened, and answered and waited… and waited.. until things did get much better. And this is my promise from this astute to the others, that there’s always another. There’s always a cuppa. There’s always these blunders, that one day won’t matter.
That one day won't matter.