I don’t know that it is actually an important thing. It’s an experience. A moment. I woke up crying. It’s not the first time. It may not be the last time. I wandered the limited space of my apartment in the darkness as if both seeking out whatever is distressing me, and also, perhaps, attempting to sneak away from it. I pace aimlessly, while plentiful hot tears spill silently down my cheeks, dripping from my face. I flutter a bit. I feel edgy and restless fighting off… what? I feel the mental machinery begin to spin up for a night of over-thinking this.

Then I begin again.

I breathe. I relax. I sit the fuck down and let the pacing and mindless cycles of movement end, in favor of a moment of self-inventory. I briefly take stock; what’s up with me? What do I need from myself? I pull myself back into this moment, here, in the quiet darkness, in the wee hours. I blow my nose. I let the tears fall without criticism. The living room is very quiet. The world feels very quiet from this quiet vantage point. I feel my emotional state shift. My tears dry. I’m okay right now. The moment passes. I meditate awhile longer. Life’s practical burdens sometimes feel heavier than they need to. It’s not about the weight, though – it’s about the journey.

I’ll sleep again, when sleep comes. I’m not quite there as I get up from my cushion, alone in the darkness. I won’t feel like writing about this tomorrow, after waking from some other moment altogether. In fact, maybe I won’t write tomorrow, I think to myself as my feet take me into the studio to while away some minutes wakefully… I’ll write now. I’ll write about this… Maybe I’ll sleep in. I feel calm. Sleep sounds good…

…Tomorrow I can begin again.