Existential Night Shift
I'd like to see statistics of how many people wake up in full-blown existential panics.
I used to get them more often when I went out drinking more often, but they've always been around in some grotesque shape or other.
It happened last night. Heart doing a demolition job on my rib cage at 2am.
WHAT HAPPENS AFTER DEATH?! WHERE WILL I BE?
One close friend with whom I share this, knowing he gets this too, chirpily assures me, 'worm food.'
There's comfort in that.
As a person who doesn't believe in any particular almighty, certainly not in human form, but recognises my belonging to something bigger and far beyond my smart ape brain's comprehension, this works.
In the night, when it happens, it's black forever. Oblivion. Utter horror. Yet now, removed, observing the life and death cycle of everything, I’m able to cling to a certain peace, considering this cellular and subatomic expanse around me.
Worm food would do.
Ask my kids. They'll tell you how important that job is. That'd be a noble onward journey.
Eventually I went for a piss and came back to bed slightly calmer, my brain returning to the dimly outlined shapes in the bedroom, anchored here, now, with me.
But about those stats. I bet there's a line between those who lead with creativity and those who wake in dread.