I cannot sleep. I had a quiet day, doing a little housework and resting much. The sublime experiences of the previous night settle, as I knew they would, but in peaceful domesticity there is a peace, moments of contemplation to ponder and connect with the memory of transcendence. I spent the evening with Rose, then read in a warm bath to try and ease pain, and came to bed. I’ve since read two books, written a considerable amount on my own book, and find myself exhausted but not sleepy. My mind will not let go and fall into sleep. It’s so peaceful here that I understand and cannot admonish it. After weeks of screaming pain, and no certainty about who will wake from slumber, it’s easier to claw back the small hours and breathe into the peace than surrender to oblivion. They are hours stolen from tomorrow though, which I will certainly regret if we wake early in pain.
So I’m back to bed again with a mug of warm milk, a piece of chocolate, and some more books. Poems by Judith Wright. Jekyll and Hyde, because I want to see if my version has an introduction that was mentioned in a another book I’ve just finished. And Death is a Lonely Business, by Ray Bradbury, because it perfectly matches my mood and it’s been a long time since I last ran on the beaches with Constance. I might not be sleeping, but I am certainly in good company.