I've never had a summer of so little sleeping ( well except of course for when my son was a baby). I don't know what's wrong. Nothing exciting is happening, nothing stressful. But for some reason I am fighting to sleep. I am always tired, so each night I feel grateful as I climb the stairs, and plop myself into bed. But I am also wary and weary, anticipating the struggle, that stands in place of the longed for serenity of sleep.

I'm exercising so it isn't the lack of being physically tired. And now I keep thinking I'm running out of days, too soon it will be September and I will have less time and more stress, taking away sleep. (which of course isn't helping me relax and go to sleep, "hurry up and sleep now, who knows when you will get this chance again!"

I keep wondering if it is the writing, I mean the lack of it, perhaps creating a subconscious gnawing feeling, like hunger that keeps one awake, the distant uneasy feeling of something left perpetually undone. I don't know if that could be it, that seems too simple, but then as it is so simple why not try it? yet somehow I resist again and again doing it to see if that would make a difference. I know I wander in unease at night. My body seems still, my mind seems still (filled with nothing), but I am perpetually wandering in a place of unease, that lies vast and long, between being awake, and being asleep. I set my daydreams in my mind, as I have always done, to lead me from one state to the next, but I keep losing them along the way, and am lost in nothingness.

An unusual photo to pick. I was looking for one blurry and grey, a blue rain day. But this one called to me instead. The fire somehow being sleep, bright in the darkness, and the one tending the fire, being a gate keeper of sorts, the one who would keep me out, or invite me in. And that is my riddle, what tasks must I do so the guardian of sleep will let me enter. (if I knew how to photo shop, I could be rid of the chair, which detracts, but perhaps then that represents the so far, immovable object)

just back from a week at the Jersey shore; I'm very grateful that it didn't rain. I had a wonderful time, but I did get a bit stressed over stuff like trying to pack up my family's life, and squish it into my little green beetle. It would be different if things like pillows, blankets, towels, beach towels, tissues, tp, spices, hand soap, etc., didn't need to be packed. And also if I wasn't a woman, and didn't need to pack for rain for shine, for heat, for cold, for sun with a breeze, for beach, for boardwalk, for bike riding. Oh wait, I miss it already, I would gladly make another go of squashing it all back in there if I could have another week.
Read Twilight while there. I had no intention of reading said book, but my sister in law was fourth person to recommend it, and did so the day before I left, and with a flush of enthusiasm for Edward (male lead). I could prattle on now about the things that do not impress me about that book, and maybe later I will, but perhaps I should just be mute, for the point is moot, I am hooked, I am on to New Moon, and know for certain I will not stop till I have read all the books in the series. In fact I wish to be reading one right now. It is just that at the beach one can sit in a chair, feet in the sand, nose in a book for an hour, or three, and it all seems perfectly legitimate, but at home, if I take the same beach chair and set in my backyard, and plop myself down there for a spell, well it just seems indulgent and lazy, and a bit odd. Though I do keep declaring that I am doing laundry at the same time, but there is this nagging feeling that the washing machine and dryer are actually doing the majority of the work while I'm not really doing anything. And I can't help but notice all the weeds that took to my yard vibrantly while I was away. But still it is Sunday, a designated day off. I could be on vacation for one more day; I could take the linens from the dryer and toss them on my bed, and shove the clean wet towels into the dryer, and put another dirty pile into the wash, and..and..go outside, with a book and sit in the sunshine, with the lovely breeze, and only notice the flowers in my yard (not the weeds), faintly hearing the birds, and the children of summer, till I drift away, from seeing a page of printed words, to that magic when you no longer see the words, and see only pictures, as you peer into another world.