The Windmill of My Mind

I've been having trouble getting to sleep lately. And by lately, I mean the last 16 or 17 years. It seems I have a thinking problem. I do too much of it.

This is nothing new. This is nothing unknown. This is nothing that is merely confined to the moments I lie in bed, lights off, teddy bear grasped. But it is me, for better or worse.

I think a lot about the past, the future, and the present. I think a lot about art, work, friends, me. I just think...a lot.

I've been looking for ways to turn my brain off. I've meditated to little avail. I've tried every concoction of tea my local herbalist has given me. But one thing is constant: I can't stop thinking.

I dream of the places I will one day be and of the places I've been; of the people I've met and the people I'm yet to encounter; of the stories I've heard and the stories I've told. The only problem is that all these dreams happen while awake.

My somber dreams are dreams I'd rather not remember.

And maybe that's why I stay awake; my dreams while awake are always better than my dreams while asleep.

At least those dreams are monthly, not daily.