Late Lament

For the last couple of weekday mornings I have been enjoying the comfort of my bed a little too much. I throw off the covers in mock attempt to get up, then pull them back on me and wad myself up in a mess of sheet and bedspread. The words no, no, no have followed more than once, whether there is anyone there to hear my objection or not.

As the light comes in, I tuck my head underneath and shield my senses from the harshness of my responsibilities as compared to the softness of my pillow, mattress, and bedding. Somehow, my sleeping accoutrements feel better than they have ever, like they have magically transformed overnight.

Yesterday morning, while I was moving through this new routine of protest, I thought: Maybe I should see if I can absorb this level of appreciation for my bed when I turn in for the evening. Maybe if I can get in touch with what is pleasing me so much, I will feel sated once morning comes around.

I tried this last night. I consciously soaked in the smoothness of high thread count, the warmth of layered linens, and the calm of a mind clear of worries. I fell asleep within seconds and that was it. Oh well.

P.S. Inspiration for this post’s title comes from a poem of the same name written by Graeme Edge of the Moody Blues, as spoken near the end of Nights in White Satin. This is it: :)  

Late Lament
Breathe deep the gathering gloom,
Watch lights fade from every room.
Bedsitter people look back and lament,
Another day's useless energy spent.
Impassioned lovers wrestle as one,
Lonely man cries for love and has none.
New mother picks up and suckles her son,
Senior citizens wish they were young.

Cold hearted orb that rules the night,
Removes the colours from our sight.
Red is grey and yellow white,
But we decide which is right.
And which is an illusion?