Where the Wild Bees Swarm

I was talking in my sleep last night.

Nonsense. Mad ramblings of a free mind wandering around in the soft dark safety of sleep. If only my bed had been empty. My poor lover lost some sleep staring into the dark reality of the bedroom corners wondering what I would say next. Or puzzling over what I had said.

He called me “hostile”.

I wondered why he was staying to his edge of the bed when I woke sometime closer to morning, there was only the sheets touching me.

Something that strikes me as interesting is how I used the word “ka-ching” . (If that is a word at all and not just syllables.) This is not a word I use in my every day vocabulary. It’s actually a word I cannot even remember using, ever. And in the context of my night rambling, it has an odd reverberation. Odd. Really odd. You would think that night talkers would use the same series of sounds they use all day, something familiar and easy to pull out of a hat.

I think the only thing that could top this is the night I woke my ex husband, head under the covers… frantic. Looking for the spiders. I would not turn off the lights until I had made sure there was nothing creeping around. But in my sleepy state, I was having a psychotic episode. Completely convinced that the bed was swarming. He did manage to wake me, but I still checked under the bed.

Hostile.

As a child my parents were told not to wake me when I sleepwalked. I can’t remember the rational behind this, how it would harm me. I guess the reality of the situation was that I never went outside, instead taking the same route night after night. I vaguely remember how the light from the moon would make the furniture look. But now I don’t know if that was a dream. Perhaps the doctor was worried I would lash out. Act hostile.

I need to add this one to the disclaimer. If you love me, expect the following MAY occur. (Kind of like, this product MAY contain peanuts.) This woman MAY be slightly hostile if approached when sleeping. This woman MAY steal covers. This woman MAY cause you sleepless nights.

Isn’t life fantastic? You never know.

Thanks Forrest… life IS like a box of chocolates, unless you poke your pinkie finger into them first….


G.