when i lay down i will
when i lay down i will
when i lay down i will until you call me
when i lay down i will
when i lay down i will
when i lay down i will until you call me
all night i lay
something kept me from sleeping
all i could do
was stare into the ceiling
my eyes would sting
and i couldn't hear the lord
and i couldn't hear at all
so i opened up the door
was he speaking?
when i lay down i will
when i lay down i will
when i lay down i will until you call me
when i lay down i will
when i lay down i will
when i lay down i will until you call me
"Something kept me from sleeping" is the most beautiful elegy to sorrow ever. It seeps sorrow, the kind that keeps you hunched over a toilet vomiting your guts out at 4 am; the kind of gorgeous, heaven-sent sorrow that swells in the back of your throat when all is too
perfect; when the planets are aligned for you so perfectly, so intentionally, that the only logical thing to do is walk away. That is the only justice.
I say this to you because as i am often consumed with sorrow -- usually it is just the placid, whimsical kind -- i find myself singing that song to myself, like a mother tucking in her son during a thunderstorm. it is my blanket. it is sorrow in words, music. it doesn't cure or soothe even, as much as it is. It is sorrow.
sorrow bowing its head defeated in the chilly autumn night air
