Slumber

Sleep.

It comes slowly, evasive and reluctant. Makes you wish you could catch it in your palm and gently release it over your eyelids, let it permeate, and mellow you out. But it escapes, and the sheer irritation drives you to the edge. You curse yourself for messed up schedules and odd sleeping hours.

What to do?

Too much to dwell upon in the silence. Too much that has been put off the whole day. It's an obligation, a chore of sorts to just think before the thoughts let you close your eyes and die for the night, because that is exactly what it is: an illusion of death. It's what makes a mother wake up after a restless nap, to place her palm in front of her child's nostrils and check the breathing.

Inhale, exhale.

It is all well.
It will all be well.
Tomorrow is another day.

It takes its time and takes you over.