Just Beyond The Door

I’ve been lying in bed for hours now. Yawning excessively but still unable to fall asleep. Normally I fall asleep rather quickly only to wake up around three in the morning. But now it’s nearly four am and nearly halfway through listening to a new audiobook. Usually I’d take this time to be creative, but I used all that effort to write “Seeds of Doubt”. Maybe there is something in that confessional that’s haunting me even now. 

But this isn’t something that hasn’t happened before. There have been a many a night where sleep has eluded me, leaving me exhausted, and tried the next day. I suppose I could try a little mediation to distract my restlessness mind. But often it’s writing itself that has become my mediation. I do feel my heart palpitating just a bit, my lower abdomen tightening, and my sinuses closing up. Over the years this kind of fear easily triggers the panic waiting just behind the door. 
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I suppose I should pat myself on the back for taking this otherwise wasted time and putting it to good use. Still I lay here a bit envious of my bride, who quickly fell asleep the minute her head hit the pillow. Why do I find a need in showing such vulnerability, in a world that determines strength by being stoic? But with so much to say in so little time. Fear is my jailer and my salvation at the same time. Allowing to peel away at the parts of myself, that I just assume throw anyway.