I slowly close my eyes, the pen still in my hand. My mind drifts over what I've just been writing. Anger. Pain. Fear. Lust. Life. Anything really.
Outside my window a dog barks to the empty night. I open my eyes and stare down at the page in front of me. I'm so tired, but I cannot rest. My brain is going a million miles an hour, unrelenting and unstoppable.
The eerie silence that can only be found in the early hours of the morning surrounds me, caressing me, willing me to shut my eyes and sleep like everyone else. But I can't.
Night time is when it strikes - when I am half awake, and already dreaming of tomorrow. It comes, creeping slowly, waiting. Then, just as I am about to drift asleep, it leaps, forcing me awake, demanding to be recognised, fulfilled. Inspiration, strong and ugly, rampaging through my blissful state, shoving me away from my longed for slumber. And I scramble to do its bidding. To reach out into the darkness, fumbling for light, and grab my notebook. To scribble down the multitude of words, thoughts and ideas that swamp my brain.
Like a flood, sweeping me along with it, destroying everything in its path, leaving only the pure and untouchable.
I cannot stop it - and I don't know if I want to. My best writing comes from this midnight bout of insanity, born from a mind too drugged with lack of sleep to complicate and confuse. Pure emotion bred from desperation.
So I stumble on, never knowing when it will strike. I don't need much sleep anymore - my body adapting to my relentless array of thoughts. Perhaps it will fade with time, and I will once again be able to dream in peace.