In the back of one's mind right in front of these eyes, horse blinders to the left and to my right. Itβs 2 a.m. every 10 seconds of my life.
Sitting always on this chair, my neck snapping forwards to backwards so violently, and whipping me back awake again. The waiting for that bolt of lightening, the jolt of thunder to quake me out of my slippers goes on.
2 a.m. and still waiting for the magical words, or just giving up and saturating my already soggy cranium with another **** show sitcom, all for the payoff of another lonely hour burned to a crisp.
My wife bought me a boomerang airplane pillow to wrap like a comfortable friendly noose around my planter head and in it, I am a sitting duck.
I nod away in 10 second increments, my dreams lovingly groomed and coaxed into submission. But I fight the sleep.
The struggle is real. I want my last waking hour to be glorious, to send myself down with my creative endeavors left dancing in the dark, parading their proud feathers like peacocks do when they flaunt themselves across the gardens and driveways of Arcadian delight.
I want to awaken with something that bears the singed markings of the creative spark. To know I hit it before I quit it, night after night, early into the morning hours.