It’s always somewhere between two and three in the morning, isn’t it? That’s when the monsters come. They spawn from the head and chest, and stare with large, cold, accusing eyes. Manifesting every flaw, failure, and guilt.
There’s no use to it. The monsters accomplish nothing but misery, chasing around and around, replaying mistakes that can’t be undone, problems that can’t be solved. Yet they persist. A chill no blanket can warm.
Sleep won’t come, and there isn’t any comforting mantra that can drive the monsters away. They were always there, under the bed, in the closet, amorphous in childhood, then given form as the adult blundered through life.
Three o’clock becomes four, and then five, and then the alarm rings, not to awaken but to mark the end of monster time. Busy day fades them out.
They’ll be back.
