I couldn’t sleep last night, and at 4am I strongly considered texting
my therapist.
(She gets up preposterously early). I decided not to,
because we’re working on boundaries. Sometimes it’s like she doesn’t
realise I have things to do, and cant spend all day talking to her. I
didn’t want to undo all my hard work by sending mixed messages,
although I was terribly bored. (I know, she’s very lucky. I’m
impossibly considerate).
Oddly, there’s very little to do at 4.18 am on a Tuesday morning. I
briefly considered going for a run, but the eerie siren call of my bed
refused to let me leave it.My bed and I like to perform the same duet every morning:
Me: “I really must go”
Bed: “but baby it’s cold outside”
“Oh,” I thought suddenly. “I could put on some laundry”.
Then I remembered smugly that I’d put a load on that morning. I refused
to be defeated. I lay patiently and waited for the muse to strike.
“Gosh,” I thought to myself. “I wonder if a whole song will come to
me, in a flash of inspiration, like ‘Yesterday’ did for Paul McCartney.”
(I have spent some time
thinking about touring, so I would be perfectly prepared. I think the
key thing is to invite some people on your tour bus who aren’t on the payroll. Your friends, for instance).
I plumped up my pillows expectantly. “I must remember
to buy some bread,” I mused thoughtfully. I wish I had contacted my
therapist. The mundanity of my 4am ideas (traditionally a time for
deep thinking and profound truths) is alarming.
unfashionablylost 