Last night, between my husband’s buzzsaw snoring and my cats’ demonic games of tag, I couldn’t sleep. As I was lying there, a poem was coming to me that I thought I could use for the August Poetry Postcard Fest, and, while it wasn’t terrific, it certainly had potential.
I said to myself, Self, you need to get up, find a piece of paper, and write that draft down. But the sleepy, cranky side of me said, No, no, I’ll remember it. Honestly, sometimes I’m an idiot. That never works.
And the even more aggravating this is, that clearly I was awake enough at 2 a.m. to compose the poem in my head, and could have turned on the light and written it down. How hard would that have been?
And now, I have no memory of the poem at all, and have nothing to show for my insomnia last night, except a rather dreary attitude and dark black circles under my eyes. Oy.