12/26

It's quiet in the city this morning.  The hum of electricity alone fills the streets, beyond the occasional passing car.  And I'm awake.  My eyes are fixated on the blades of light cutting across the ceiling.  The underside of the leaves from the plant  seated above my spot on the floor.  The blinking LED from the power button on the computer.

And my thoughts run rampant.  I can't control them.  When I shut my eye lids I can feel my face shrivel up in concern.  Twisted brows and contorted lips.  My eyes jut wildly behind their veils.  

So I stare at the ceiling.  I stare at the ceiling and wonder how many more times I'll end up here before I get to a place, and this place doesn't necessarily have to be physical, but I get to a place where I can lay down for sleep and not have the worries of the world pounding at my temples.  Where I don't wake in the night from fear that love simply isn't enough.  Where random and ridiculous prerequisites for a peaceful night's rest don't need filling.  Where I don't have to back track the course of my life trying to distinguish how many warning signs I missed that could've prevented the tragedy when it all came crashing down.

And where I'm left sifting through the rubble.