For as long as I can remember, I've had insomnia.

Last night, I lay in bed staring at the paper blinds swaying back and forth, and wondering why I have found myself in this same scenario so often. Laying on my side, watching the blinds tap against the window in the breeze, listening to Brad sleeping, softly, admiring the gentle quality of florescent light that passes through the rice paper and washes my ceiling at night.

As his soft breathing evolved to soft snoring, and the passing cars had become few and far between, I realized what it was that made me so continuously restless. It was fear of loss. The same fear of loss that permeates my life from day to day. I was afraid of the day slipping away. I was afraid of losing the events of the day. My memories. Myself.

A friend recently commented to me "who are you"? I really don't know. Maybe if I did, or was okay with not knowing, I would be able to let go. I would be able to shut my eyes, and let it all slip away. But I can't. I remember almost every event that has passed since my first memory.

So I lay there, pulling the sheets close to my body as if they would fly away if I didn't. Pulling the events of my life closer and closer, as if they too, would fly away. But now I'm tired. I want to rest.

I hope that some day, a clear and quiet version of myself will emerge. I'll drift off, and sleep for days on end. I'll wake up a better, more conscious version of myself. My higher self. Calm and accepting of change and circumstance.

Until then, sing me a lullaby