Ray of Hope

I never sleep well anymore. The cloud from which I sank precipitates and rains on me, pitter patters splashing down within my mind come to my eyes in the form of tears. I cry. Darkness comes so late thanks to these lengthy, summer days. Peep frogs harmonize their melody outside of my window, active white noise muting the business of the summer haze. Distant cars gone mute, neighbor’s laughter silenced; all is quiet on the western front of my home, and in all other directions. I find it peaceful and relaxing, so I stay up and think about it a while; what blessings are bestowed upon me! But, alas, I cry.

So, lest I let you forget, I cry. My blondish hair that grazes my shoulders through which pokes an ear is now completely dry after my pre-bedtime shower. I lay with one leg on top of the comforter and the other underneath, and no socks are on my feet, of course. My pillow is soft and rough and warm and cold and comforting and irritable. I am content. I should be at peace, but something about the sound of the peep frogs coated by the gentle swaying of the trees in a motioned breeze takes me back to my cloud, before it ever started to rain.

The morning sun should push away the rain, but it only makes it rain harder. Storm warnings are issued in my cerebral news center, and my hurricane brain is left strained by the sun. Sun, vicious sun up in the sky. As soon as I begin to close my eyes and dream, the morning sun imposes and invites himself into my room. She came in through the bedroom window, and opened up my weary eyes with her light. My blue eyes now sporting blue bags underneath, like reflections in rippled water. I purse my lips and let out my breath in a controlled and forceful fashion; my body shivers, and I put my other leg under the coves. Every night is just about the same, by the time my mind finally allows me to sleep, the morning sun rudely awakens me, rendering me helpless to my inevitable tiredness.

Another night, I lie here in my bed staring at my ceiling. I think of Willie Nelson’s song “Hello Walls” and imagine that my walls, window, and ceiling would sing to me like his do to him. I do this often, it both amuses and interests me, so I say aloud “hello walls” and wait in the silence, while only the peep frogs ribbitting “hello” back to me. I’m crazy, crazy for thinking they will converse with me. I feel uncomfortable on my right side, facing the wall with the concaving ceiling that slants above with chipped red paint, so I roll all the way over onto my left side. I close my eyes tightly, reopening them slowly and completely, though I soon retract them back to a focused squint. My walls are substantially closer than they normally are. I’m not crying tonight.

The peep frogs seem to be muted out, the moonlight seems to be hitting every surface outside yet not making its way into my room even slightly; my room remains pitch black yet I can tell that the walls are moving for the bright moonlit windows appear closer. I swallow, curiously, and then say confidently, “hello walls”. Nothing. Ok, I’m losing my mind. Then I say, “hello window”. Nothing. Wait, moonlight seems to be pouring into my room, a shadow displays “Hello” on my wall where it meets the ceiling. I close my eyes tightly and take a deep breath. I breathe out, exhaling slowly as I simultaneously open my eyes. To my dismay, the walls are closing in around me. I don’t hear peep frogs or wind or even my own breath, I hear nothing; am I deaf? Suddenly my walls, then window, then ceiling start to sing “hello” one at a time, until all three collide in a harmonized unison. It’s beautiful at first, but it gets louder and louder until I take my hands out from under the covers to block my ears. More and more voices keep joining in saying “Hello”, so I close my eyes and start to cry; it is just like every other night after all.

Suddenly, all the hellos fade away, I take my hands off my ears and hear the chirping of morning birds, relieving the peep frogs of their night shift. I slowly open my eyes, and my walls and window are all back in place, and my room is brightly illuminated by the comfort of the morning sun, who for once has come to my rescue and not to my demise. I walk over to my window and open it. My eyes are dry. I breath in the fresh air, and look up at the sun and say “hello sun”. I do not think I will cry tonight; I think I will sleep soundly.


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