I notice the incessant ticking from the fan overhead.
My brain flows fast like whiskey shots down partygoers’ throats on a Friday night.
Insomnia. Inspiration at night. Reflection at night. Meaning: at night.
A night owl is what I am.
Pijama bottoms crumple in marked layers as I create warmth rubbing my legs together.
My body asks for sleep. My brain asks for meaning, action, thought.
Words flow like bumpy currents down a stream of worry, angst, solitude, and dreams.
Touch, thought and movement all in slow motion; details palpable like summer wind.
I feel the bed sheets like never before. I hear the pen marking its way through the paper like never before. Alive and comforting.
At night I find meaning.
At night I am born again.