Why are you so downcast, O soul?

In the middle of the night, I get religion. My eylids droop halfway and my lungs fill more and more slowly. This fatigue is a cradle, and it's shaped like the caring hands of a tangible god.

It's often said that religion is human invention -- a crutch -- based on fear and my four-in-the-morning devotion is witness to just that phenomenon. These days, I am finding myself afraid. I'm increasingly terrified of gory movies, scary music, loud noises.

I can't take crowds anymore: so close, so noisy, unpredictable. My parents took us to see a play when they visited and I was in a state of absolute panic in the lobby, jumpy through the whole show. So many souls sharing space. So many thoughts.

I don't sleep in my own bed most nights because the room seems so tiny, so dark, so cut off. I wouldn't see the murderer coming in the door.

A friend offered the theory that I'm just getting older. Is this a symptom?

At night, it all comes crashing together. I am transformed to a tiny, mewling creature, insane from lack of security. Needing placation, needing reasons to wake up tomorrow feeling like a complete human being. I am simultaneously scared of sleeping and waking up, scared of failure and history, scared of the future. I'm scared of the dark, scared of passing headlights. I'm scared of my own coporeal form, scared of my thoughts, scared that no one will come to my rescue.

No one mortal, no one profane.

This is when I curl up in a faith I can't describe. There are bigger things than me on this planet, but thinking about them looming out there doesn't make me feel any better. There are bigger things than me well beyond this planet, beyond this comprehension, and that makes me feel nothing but small. Small and protected. Small and smooth. A pebble, smooth in a wondrous palm, I am kept.