Some nights are like that. The cats won't stop begging for release from their evening sleep spot. They meow and fight and scratch pitifully at the door. Just as they're starting to quiet down and you're starting to fall asleep, sirens drive by, remarkably close, and loud through the poorly designed windows. Then the cats start freaking out again, as if black riders are on their trail and they have to escape in order to throw their collars into the factories from whence they came.
Some nights are like that. It's too warm in the bedroom, but you don't have the energy to go digging for that lighter spring blanket that you know is probably in one of the closets, but you're not sure where. So you sweat and wake up and half-sleep restlessly, waking once every hour or two with a neck ache because your memory foam pillow has developed Alzheimer's. In the wee hours of the morning, you just want ten more minutes of sleep after the alarm goes off; but between the sun - having risen like it never experienced the big bang in its life - and the cats, those mother-loving cats, you just give up on it.
Some nights are like that.
And after you get up and feed the cats and make one stop eating the other's food, you realize something: it wasn't really that bad of a night.
The sirens didn't come to your building. You are healthy and not the victim of crime. You can afford two cats to love and shelter, and a nice enough apartment that stays warm in the winter and (presumably, hopefully) cool in the summer. The black riders are just in the book you're reading, which is not real no matter how much you might like some parts of it to be. The bedroom is warm because a certain spousal unit is making beer and the thermostat can't be turned down or it won't ferment properly. He's making beer. You have blankets. You have a bed.
You are awake. You are alive.
And you realize last night wasn't that bad after all.