I blame it on the still night. All night spent converting sunshine into chlorophyll, the leaves on the tree framed by the window are fast asleep. I hope for the rain to come pouring down and cool the house and put me to sleep. Poor me! I tire and surrender to insomnia. What should I write and how? I struggle with sentences failing to fall in place.
I close my eyes, sense my breaths. In. Out. In. Out. I lay my down my pen. Not a care in the world. Thankfully, I have a fan that rotates over my head, more than enough lighting. Suddenly, I get the jitters. Where am I headed? Think.
Midnight madness. I like the ring to the words. Midnight. Madness. Truth is stranger than fiction. A hair divides what is false and true – Omar Khayyam. Ramble. Ramble. Ramble. Ramble. Ramble for the last time. Random thoughts seek a specific response, and I am helpless.
Will a drink of water make me feel better and/or a bath remove the stickiness on my body? I am afraid to let go. Afraid to stem the flow of thought. What if I’m left holding my pen in darkness? And sleep still rebels. I look to the clock. It shows no mercy. A good three hours to dawn.
The night is still still. The fan works overtime. So do my eyes. I close my eyes, exercise my jaws. Go into a reverie. Lose myself. What if? I have no flair for writing and this is a wake-up call.