There it is, sitting on the bottom of my bed, with that satisfied look on its face. The moon through the blinds shows only part of its look. It has no name but I really think it is a sleep demon, the type that fiddles with your brain all night, making you toss and turn on even freshly laundered sheets which, when first stretched out on the mattress pad are tight and smooth and lovely looking but as soon as you lay your body on them, thinking how nice they feel and try to sleep, you turn and then turn again till they are a strangling knotted mess.
That type of demon, sent from some terrible place where the main occupation is to make sure no one relaxes into a dreamy state of rest and sleep. I know this, although you may disagree, thinking there is no such demon that alights on your beautiful bedding just when the lights go out. I only see him for a second and then he starts ruffling and wrinkling up the covers, throws words and puzzles and faces of people into my mind, an endless barrage of thoughts, memories and regrets or happy or sad ideas that bother so I finally sit up and yell, “f—!”
A demon, definitely, a curse from the great hidden underworld where all things unpleasant originate. I see or feel its effects every night. Each evening I once again stretch the sheets to a smoothness, tighten the fitted corners, admire, a temporary thought of hope for rest. I turn off the bedside lamp, settle myself and try to sleep.