, , , , , , , , , ,

Twisting and turning in bed. The night is too long and the hours spent in a state not quite of waking but not really asleep are far too many. Jilted out of restless dreams of strange potential futures – some delightful, yet impossible visual transpositions of undisclosed desires; some insane juxtapositions of a slew of random facts and images your brain collects along the way.

Blame it on the full moon; on the new moon. Blame it on the weather; on the cold, on the rain, on the snow storm, on the hurricane. Blame it on the tidal waves or on the magnetic fields. On the lack of the sun’s rays or on the slow-lifting fog. Blame it on every conceivable force of nature.

The night hours are too few and yet too many to get any rest.

But you never blame it on the lover. Never on yourself.