When a writer cannot sleep, as this writer often cannot sleep, she writes. In journals, on scraps of papers, on tablets that have not been charged for months but which are the only thing at hand because her sweet little laptop is downstairs charging. She gropes for her glasses,, cranks up the heating pad, and writes.
Ask her where the well of words hides when her world occupies her mind and she cannot tell you. Everything comes whole, unbroken. The words lurk behind the pain; when she moves the agony aside, the waterfall cascades down into the bleak valley and fills its barren counters with life. She cannot stop the flow; and she reaches out to anyone who might be listening, anyone who has stepped on the cobblestones which she now treads. Can you warn her? Watch, now, there’s a broken pavement; dodge that stretch, jump onto the curb. But no: Like the journey of so many, she must make this trip alone.
Stand by the wayside, then, and wish her bon voyage, for the night stretches into the new day with unrelenting bleakness, and you who have seen your own sorrows in the midnight hour know well the agony which she must endure before she can rest.
The writer does not complain about her sleepless nights. She knows that your sleepless nights plague you, and she sends you these words: Close your eyes; let go of your worries; the sun soon rises. The night will end. Be well, my dear ones. Don’t cry.