It is literally two a.m. in the morning, and I am here writing this post rather than curled up in my bed, enjoying whatever it is that I think about in my nightly dreams.  I have a love/hate relationship with 2 a.m.  On one hand, I love the absolute quiet, the absolute stillness of the hour.  It is sprinkling outside, and it feels like the world, all its good and all its bad, are completely mine.  On the other hand, I hate this time of night because I know without a doubt, that tomorrow morning invariably comes, and I am going to be tired.

There is a romance about two a.m., probably perpetuated by those classic movies of love where our heroine is unsettled and roaming the halls while she thinks of her life.  Midnight, while also famous, doesn’t have the same restless peace that this hour embodies.  I know that those I love are dreaming, what I hope is sweet and comforting dreams, and it is only those souls that are restless as I am tonight that are patiently waiting the sun.

I like the light patter of rain that can only be heard on nights as quiet as this.  And I like that I step on my front porch, and the wind whispers so softly.  There are frogs out tonight, probably due to the rain, and they sit quietly the moment I leave my front door.  Are they waiting for me as a prey does a predator, or are they simply enjoying the quiet as I am forced to do?  And where are the rest? Are the birds, the cats, the babies all sleeping tonight? Are they mocking my inability to find that rest?

My long hair is resting down my back, something it never has a chance to do as I keep it contained each day. It is in many ways my security blanket, covering my shoulders and with its mass keeping me company.  I don’t need company this deep into the night, as my thoughts tend to give me all the color movies that I would ever need.

I think about the plot of my next book, or the fantasy only my darkness is allowed to know.  I think about my day, and wonder when my body decided that sleep was not needed.  I think about tomorrow, all I will be and all that I might become.  I think about my worries, my woes, and sometimes wish I had a babies softness to cradle again.  For there have been times that a child comforted me at two a.m.  And that comfort was stronger than the hair on my shoulders, or the plots of my own make believe world.

I suppose at this two a.m. I shall go and smoke my first cigarette of the day, try to quiet my busy mind with the music of the rain, and slowly, slowly attempt to find enough peace to sleep.  It will ultimately be a combination of wishes and luck that will allow me to once again escape into dreams.

Until then, I shall live the cliche.