Diurnal

I miss the floating stasis of night time. I miss staying up late and feeling cooperation and harmony among my motivation, my emotions, and my mental state. I miss how productive I used to be during the midnight hours when I was blinded to the impatient dimensions like sun and supper.

These days time passes before my eyes, not beneath my feet, and I seldom feel my consciousness relax enough to fill the vacant sky. I think it's a lack of solitude.

Don't get me wrong, I have plenty of alone time during the day, at least a solid six hours of idle time while Reagan's gone, then another, scattered three when he's home in the evenings. But during daylight, no matter the weather, I feel the presence of the rest of the world. I feel the trees and the birds, the neighbors and their pets. I feel the cars and the kids and the noise and the work; the huge, lit reality out there is oppressive. I see it, I hear it, I feel it, and I can't shut it out.

But the shadow blacks of nighttime are a blank canvas to me and for me. Silence pulls me out of my head and belittles my inhibitions. At night I find my focus better than I ever feel it during the day; it's just my nature.

I've taken decently well to daytime living, though. I wake up before six and fix Reagan some breakfast. I clean the kitchen and pass my day, watching the sun so I can move my flowers, watching the clock so I can time my shower, errands, or at the very least plan dinner. Structure is good. Going to bed at the same time my husband does is good. Those last minutes of shared awareness are treasured every day.

Tonight, however, I left him upstairs to sleep alone.

I'm down here missing the darkness.