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Cast under its spell yet again, at nearly 3:00am the kettle is boiled to make my routine brew of chamomile tea. It starts. Yes: I meet with insomnia often, so I have a somewhat regular routine for these instances. Chamomile tea: calming, relaxing and aids the sandman in sending one off to a sweet slumber. I have invested in a fresh, loose bag of it from my favourite tea store that I frequent. Fresh is best!

Taking to my usual perch upon my windowsill with my cup of tea in hand, I look over the city with a thoughtful and reflective gaze, darting between calming meditative thought and wistful, entrapped moments of slight panic. The quiet sound of passing traffic below is blurred into a resemblance of soft ocean waves calmly lapping over a sandy shore bed.

Time is gifted to myself to remember. That I have endured and survived what many could not. That I am no less a woman now than I ever was. That I have already been lucky enough to have someone wonderful love me for a period of time, and not always see me as something that needed fixing. Memories are listed in thought – the ones that make one smile and ones that offer me strength.

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My guitar is held, sometimes played for a few moments. The sweet vibrations of Johnny Cash’s acoustic cover of Hurt often warm my sleepless thoughts and worn body. Tonight is one of those nights. My voice is sharp and smoky tonight. I clutch my instrument with such adoration. Tonight, it and I are one. I feel its essence resonate with mine in comfort.

A second cup of chamomile tea is poured and I pile myself neatly back into bed, not before setting a stacked selection of books beside me. I look past the books at my paints set for action against the latest acquired blank canvas. A decided task for another day.

I endeavour to shut out the questioning mind. It is wondering if there is something extraordinary waiting to be discovered about sleep deprivation. Something that may assist in explaining the ongoing trouble with my body. Sigh.

A book is picked up from the top of the pile. 1984. A story I know. The book is opened again and an attempt at reading in meditative thought is made while I sip away on my tea. A sense of drowsiness begins to take hold. Today, tiredness wins. So I am nearly looking forward to the inevitable, impending, exhaustive lucid dreams that are waiting for me.

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