Sleepless

There is a drip drip dripping in the night. It echoes against the walls, through the halls, through windows and open doors, into bedrooms and against the eardrums of the sleep deprived. Louder in the silence. Louder than the multitude of the night's population, chirping, croaking, creaking, calling in the darkness, making their unseen presence felt.

He lies in bed, longing for sleep. Sleep is slow to come tonight, as any other. In a bed not his own, with borrowed pillows and linens, under a roof generously provided, graciously accepted, but with no sense of belonging to him, he wills drowsiness to come to him. But slumber is slave to no will, and chooses not be found.

A baby wakes in the night. Waking in hunger perhaps, in discomfort, for this afternoon's meal has finally worked its way through. She cries for her mother, for her father, for anyone to give her succor, rescue from this immediate discomfort. Her wails weaving their way through windows, against walls and under doors, waking parents, ignoring others, but assaulting he who has yet to succumb to sleep.

He stares at the ceiling. He has memorized the pattern of the shadow that the light throws through the window. Unwavering in the fluorescent glow, its stillness punctuated by the flutter of wings, now and again, seeking warmth and wonder, until a quick flick of a tongue, and mini-mashing of a toothless maw returns stillness to the shadow. He lies still, flirting with the edge of sleep, but unable to go all the way.

The howl of mighty engines rule the streets tonight. Along the empty mountain road, racing in the dark, past houses, homes, and their resident guardians, who join in with staccato barking, yelping and growling. Frustrated with their fate, envious of the freedom the men in their machines are so keen to take advantage of. They yap, yip, bark and howl in discontentment. He hears them, yet he hears them not.

He has found in himself the stillness that has eluded him. He listens to each of the nights sounds, songs in turn. He is giving himself up to this nights concerto, listening for the lullaby that he knows will lead him to the land of dream and fitful sleep.

The air-conditioner hums this lullaby. It breathes in the warmth and exhales the cold, humming, humming, humming all the while. A steady drone, still movement, comforting constant cacophony, carefully carrying the weary beyond the walls of wakefulness and into sleep and dreaming beyond.

He sleeps tonight. And will wake to a new day, but not until the morning, only hours away.