There is something primeval about the middle of the night. Total blackness. A heightened awareness of sound, with the wind tipping the leaves on their backs as it rips through the branches and the leaves protest. The sound of the rain slamming into the ground, unheeded. For some strange reason I want to be out in it. Part of it.
3 a.m. is not a good time to be creative. My brain is somnolent but my body is still refusing to start healing as it is meant to do and my breathing not relaxed so sleep evades me. Emotions rule your body in the middle of the night. There is no balance of rationality. Just a glimmer of light would bring perspective, but that prospect is hours away yet.
I just want everything to be right again, for whatever is blocking all progress in our lives right now to be miraculously lifted and for plans to succeed, illness to recede, worries to be eased and hope to return. I have no heart to do anything. My routines are out of the window. One step forward has now fallen back two steps. This time last week I was back to walking and I can't believe that a few hot humid days have knocked me sideways so much. I no longer have any faith in my Doctor. It is not a good position to be in.
Perhaps tomorrow will be better. It is, as Scarlett O'Hara once famously remarked, another day . . .