There is a whole other world that lives and breathes while the rest of us sleep. It is a dark world inhabited by the night creatures: insomniacs, night shift workers, thieves who prefer darkness ... and ... I have discovered ... the odd alcoholic poet who emerges from her haze to post wonderful poetry after midnight.
Her poetry (if you read it in the middle of the night) has the odd juxtaposition of letters caused by fumbly fingers, but the thoughts are incisive and clear headed. I think she must do the final surface editing in the cold light of day, perhaps after she has slept and before the first drink because I don't find such typos in the poems I read at other times.
I sometimes wish I were a night person. On the few occasions when I have inhabited the night I have discovered a world in which all my senses are heightened. It has been an exciting place to be alive and aware.
Since taking prednisone my insomnia is far worse than it was.
I think I shall try using my night time more profitably from now on. Oh I will still check the floor heating and scold the element in the water tank if it crankily shuts itself off. I will continue to force it back to work by throwing the breaker. I will sink down before the wood stove and watch as the new logs flare up. I will make myself a cup of herbal tea and read for a while.
But I think I will start choosing a refreshing tea like Many Mints, perhaps take a bracing shower, and then throw myself into work on a piece of writing. Who knows? Maybe my senses will be heightened on a regular basis. Maybe I will produce something that can stand unashamedly beside the work of the alcoholic poet.