Waking up early is one thing.

Never getting to sleep is an entirely different thing, and something that I can't remember ever being this severe.  I haven't slept well in a week, but I've always at least fallen asleep.

So when you haven't slept, I guess you write.

Psalm 77 in The Message has exactly what I feel at the moment (vv. 2-6):

I found myself in trouble and went looking for my Lord; my life was an open wound that wouldn’t heal.  When friends said, “Everything will turn out all right,” I didn’t believe a word they said.
I remember God—and shake my head. I bow my head—then wring my hands.
I’m awake all night—not a wink of sleep; I can’t even say what’s bothering me.  I go over the days one by one, I ponder the years gone by.  I strum my lute all through the night, wondering how to get my life together.

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I was reflecting earlier on the short amount of time we were in our house, not only because our time together was so short, but also because of BMT land.  The trigger this time was kitchen gadgets, things that we got from the wedding, things that we used, but only a few times, things that I've used but only recently, because they are no longer in storage and I thought they no longer had emotional power.  But it's not necessarily a bad power.

So anyway, we spent maybe a little over 7 months in the house, one and a half before entering BMT land, and then remembering living back and forth between DeLand and Tampa, hearing the fireworks at Busch Gardens from the apartment, taking walks and runs around the little "lake," flushing the port, Dinosaur World, so much driving, so many days of empty brain, and all of it just a glimpse of how many memories there are and how much still to unlock.  And I have planned to do some of that Saturday, which will be very good but very hard.



Mercifully I don't have a lot going on today.

I guess I'll go for a run.