Sorrow May Last for a Night

In general, I have never been a morning person, but even I must admit that mornings contain a certain unfathomable power.

A single night of silence can flick the "Reset" button.

Often a chap will tell you, when held sway by gut-wrenching fears, worries, realizations, to "sleep it off - it will look better in the morning." Even my cynical self cannot protest this truth.

"Though the sorrow may last for the night, His joy comes in the morning." 

That's how the verse goes, isn't it?

I woke up this morning and still had an awful knot in my stomach about certain things - certain facts I cannot change - but these facts did not grip my throat with such venomously unyielding force as they had at the midnight hour. That which had held me captive in the dark held little influence over me in the daylight.

Allowing myself to sleep is almost an act of trust. Trust that the world will not stop turning when my eyes blink shut. Trust that I will find the answer when I rise. Trust that if I don't, it will all turn out all right in the end.

When the cogs in my brain threaten to coil so tightly they are in peril of snapping, it is at this moment I direly need to lay my heavy head and heavy heart down to rest.

You may find their collective weight just the slightest gram more bearable when you wake. But that's the nature of sorrow. It is slow to disappear, but disappear it will.

One gram, one night, one morning at a time.