night …

And then there are some nights.

Nights so long you’re nearly certain the dawn will never come.

(Your only assurance being the fact that, thus far in your experience, it always has.)

Nights filled with sick kids offering a play by play of their stomach aching misery from the bathroom.

Nights when you are only certain of one thing – there will not be adequate sleep gained for you to operate as The Responsible Human life is guaranteed to expect of you the next morning.

Nights when the dreams that greet your restless soul are so violently vivid and unexpected that your brain is literally reeling with the images come morning.

Images both real and frightening, welcoming and terrifying.  Lifescapes and scenes that feel genuine and lived and events that are the stuff of hope not quite withered and thoughts previously assumed controlled and subdued.

(Some bits of our brains die hard – do they not?  Some memories and thoughts invade long after we are certain they’ve lost their vivacity.)

It all makes for a difficult arising.

A desire to shake the heavy weight of the night from the foggy forefront coupled with an opposing desire to let the heft of the blankets and the night terrors keep us low and under the burden of fear.

The rising of the sun is welcomed and summoned.  And yet.  It is dreaded.  There’s a sliver of that night filled with false memories and suppressed experiences that is also overflowing with equal parts desire for what was and what will never return and what only shows up in fragments in interrupted uncomfortable night revelations.

Still.

You remind yourself.

It was only one night.  Of mostly pretend and mismatched thoughts and misplaced information.

And you repeat what you know:

Weeping may occur for a night,

but joy cometh in the morning.

(And you hold out hope and look for the joy on the horizon.)