3am

3am and I’m awake, thinking. I’ve just come back from feeding the baby and slowly I’m defrosting, pushed up against my partner’s back. He’s too deeply asleep to push my cold away. For that I’m grateful.

Eyes closed, I craft sentences in my head, running the words over my tongue, silently mouthing them. I play with sentence structure, feeling the words roll around my mouth like jewels.

With concerted effort I pull myself away from my grammatical musings and set my mind to sleeping. Something inside me tells me to get up, to write this down, to sit and in the silence, write.

Instead I pull myself deeper under the covers seeking warmth.

Slowly sleep claims me and I dream of words. Of leaking words like water, dripping like tears.

This is how I know I’m a writer. When I dream the words, when I spend all day thinking about how to write the mundane and make it beautiful. This is how I know.

***

I’ve hit a block in my book. I need to sit and work, but instead I procrastinate. I check my stats, I press send/receive on my email, I let my mind wander away. I stand and closing my laptop, I walk away. To think of something else.

***

Deeper I sink, into the fog. I push myself down into the grey damp depths and there I lay, quiet and waiting. I can almost remember what breathing feels like, here in this fog.

I lay there; stopped.

A touch on my leg brings me gasping to the surface again.

Mummy! she cries and floomp, she sits on my stomach. I pull her down to me and kiss the end of her nose, breathing in the smell of her hair. Laughing, she darts away.

I made that.

How did I make something so beautiful?