Midnight Writer
The sun has set on the horizon with hues of orange and red that have taken my breath away till finally darkness blankets the world beyond the windows of my life. The blinds closed and shades are drawn, shutting out the people and happenings of the day now drawn to a close. Whatever goes on outside from now to the rising of the sun at dawn when another new day begins has to wait till tomorrow for me to face it. A lamp on the end table sheds its light on my darkening living room allowing for reading, writing, television watching, announcing the conclusion of yet another day. Sneakers or shoes are replaced with slippers, jeans and tees, suits and ties are replaced with comfy sweats or night clothes. It is time to rest the weary body and soul to prepare for whatever the morning may hold.
Dramas, comedies, musicals, news, they fill the hours till the eyes can’t be kept open any longer. The clock on the wall and my tired bones tell me it is time to climb the stair to my cozy bed and sleep once more. “Ah”, the tiny voice in my head says, “thank God”.
As I slip between the sheets a huge sigh escapes from my lips with great expectations of comfort. I fluff my pillow, I squirm to find just the right spot to settle into, pull the blankets up and tuck them under my chin just right. I utter one more “ah” in anticipation of floating off to dream land. My eyes drift slowly, slowly shut, what delightful visions shall fill head and perhaps make my heart soar? I hold my breath eagerly awaiting slumber to overtake me.
I open my eyes, I blink, I ever sneak in a prayer or two, okay a curse or two, why am I not floating happily in dreamland. All conditions should be go, pillow, check, blankets, check, position, check, darkness, check, exhaustion, check! The digital clock on the dresser catches my eye, glaring at me and I swear I hear it mocking me in my fantasy of catching any zzzz’s.
So begins my brain shifting into every worry, every fear, every what if that exists in my life. Hours of glancing, inspecting, examining that harassing clock as it slows down to a turtles pace, never moving more than a two minutes per hour. Midnight, twelve ten, one o nine, two o one, two thirty, two thirty six, two forty-five, on and on. Gotta pee, three o’clock. Okay now maybe now I can doze off. Yeah right, the laughter from that numerical neon pain in my behind on the dresser builds with every single minute it flashes at me.
So let me introduce myself, here I am, “the midnight writer” with thought after thought flooding my mind, thoughts that I want to put down on paper, thoughts that surely will be gone with the morning light.
