Kiwi Crocus (cranky__crocus) wrote,
Kiwi Crocus

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Growl on sleep. I was a bad girl and broke all the rules of eating. 1) I ate something spicy, Taco Bell. 2) I ate it lying down. 3) I then tried to go to sleep.

Really not a wonder that I then had heartburn. =P. So I was awake at 4 o'clock in the morning, and knew I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep for a while. I believed I then had two options: write fanfic or read fanfic. This time around, I chose to read some fanfic. It was quite pleasant.

I rested in bed (with my futon 6" up at head level) and thought for an hour after that. I think I fell asleep at six-something.

Before all that, last night when I was trying to sleep, I had some really beautiful and scary moments. I had watched some Doctor Who (particularly scary episode) and I decided to leave the light on.

Then I remembered back to what kept me from being afraid when I was a child. How I was never the one who was afraid of the dark. I would look out there, and think that if there was anything to fear it was probably just creatures who didn't get enough love because they grew up in the dark and everyone was afraid of the dark. So I thought that if I just appreciated darkness and sent out love, I would be fine. And of course I always was; not many creatures, to the common mind, prancing around in the dark.

I wondered what kept me from fear now. I started thinking about God, and how I always try to be kind to God even though I'm not a believer and think there is a very small chance there is a God--but I wouldn't disrespect God, because I feel I would be disrespecting believers. And in the small (my beliefs only!) chance that there is a God, I would want that entity to know--even if I ended up going to a hell (that I also don't believe in) for being a sinner--that I'm a kind person and that my parents raised me to have manners. And I thought that if I could personally not believe in something that so many people in the world believe in, I could certainly not believe in monsters that would attack me in my own room. Poof went the fear.

Then I was looking and listening around. It felt as though my room was breathing. That happens a lot, when I'm places. And I saw beautiful silver dots that would fly around until I went to look at them. My room was breathing in time with me, for a while, but then it seemed to speed up as if it was doing something active. I wondered if there was something wrong with my eyes. Sometimes, things appeared to be flying by. I didn't see any bugs when I looked.

I listened to my room, thinking pleasantly now. It sounded as though it swallowed, sometimes, and I smiled when I looked to the corner with the heating system. My computer made little mumbling noises from time to time as if it were tired. The walls, sometimes, sounded magical. Outside I heard lovely whispers and powerful nature voices.

I thought back to my lonely childhood, when my friends were the creatures I invented into existence in my room. The kittens that would come visit me and then leave through the electric plugs whenever someone came in. All the size-shifting horses. Faeries, unicorns, strange little men who loved tipping their hats and hiding under my bed because they were shy.

I imagined in the moment little people scurrying across my floor, complaining and shaking fists at the mess can be found there now. I thought of faeries that live behind my posters, winking in and out when they don't think I'm paying attention. And cute little rug monsters, who roll around as petite puff balls but dive into the carpet when they are disturbed.

It was so wonderful to think of such things. Then I started thinking about sanity. Thinking such things couldn't possibly be insane. Is it a belief in such things that makes people insane? But of course there are real people out in the world who are proud to believe things that could be said to be much stranger. Is it a belief in such things that hurt others that marks insanity? If these creatures in the mind attack another being, causing harm or no?

And I thought, I certainly don't feel any less sane than anyone else. I just feel as though I have my childhood imagination still wonderfully in tact. I wondered if it was because I'm a writer. Did my writing come from the lonely spots of my childhood when I would think of all these things? When they would entertain me for hours? Is it OK for me to almost believe in these things because I then write stories about them?

I never know what I believe. I think, somehow, I'm more likely to believe in unique creatures of nature than I am in a Sky God. I always have a hope that there are things out there that science has not discovered. That energy can create even more beauty, and that if we just stop and...not pay attention, but become an equal part of our environment, we might catch a glimpse or sound.

It was all very interesting. I love my imagination. I love thinking for hours.
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