Slumber Core

Up when I shouldn’t be, but then when the weight of your immediate world is upon your shoulders, well, you succumb. So, up I got and up I am. Surfing the web, listening to the rain, watching the lightning, and wondering what all the sleepers are dreaming?
It is not often I can’t sleep. But this is all new to me. This being the age that I am, and the state I am in… not terribly unique to be honest, but unique enough for me.
I am at what some call the pivot. Or, you might call it the fork in the road, … and I, I took the road less traveled by.
My current road finds me in a new city, about to move into a new (to me, to us) home and looking for meaningful employment. Meaningful in a way that makes me more than just another glorified writer, typing away at home for pennies on the dollar, if there were ever a dollar offered for their work. Sheer persistence. So it goes.
But that’s where I am. Here. Stutter stepping into whatever may come, regretting nothing you understand, except perhaps starting out earlier than I did, many years ago.
I have always been behind. By this I mean, behind in what I thought or should be doing at this point. A decade maybe.
While others, my age, are contemplating retirement I’m thinking about that pivot. It is to be expected that surely a job will not set everything in order. That kind of pivot has to come from within. You have to have that stuff inside you to begin with, or to have at all a chance of getting it done in the first place.
I wish I were tired, but I’m not. On my mind: The living room, the family room, the kitchen, the bedrooms, my office, the moving vans, the internet, the bike, the coffeehouse, the dogs, the wonder of it all. The TV is playing Metropolis. 
It is not asking too much, to be comfortable with the uncomforable; to excel still at an age society says is the downturn, to truly have that desire to change.
Something to be proud of. This want. This turning. If only it could produce better sleeping sessions, if only then, right?
We only have ourselves to blame; we only have ourselves to champion and we can only lead ourselves to water.
This does bring some sleep to my eyes. A thankful heart does this kind of magic. Or, it could be the melatonin, it does magic too.
So I’m up, up in the air about the future. Leave things undone. Gather up other things. Keep moving. Stay in that blissful now. This can be accomplished. This can be the way.
This can be the poem, the one you pen on your backyard deck one bright summer afternoon, not so far from now, strains of Sibelius, the dogs scampering about; and how the words shine there on the page — and maybe then, then all sorted and in their place, the turning is sane and true and one can live again with hope.
And I will return to my reputation as one who can sleep through anything.
War. Storms. Transitions. The Donald.