Sunday, December 6, 2009

Creative Insomnia

For some reason I am most reflective, most self-examinatory when sleep deprived. two in the morning and a growing stack of papers next me unlock a small window to my soul. Te bed to my right calls me to come and sleep away my troubles in a far away blissful dreamland, yet still on my pencil scurries. Meaningless rhymes and deflectory sarcasm set aside, simple and often painful truth takes shape before me. "One last piece," I think to myself, yet each time I reach The End my mind merely leaps down another literary path, eagerly spilling forth eloquent prose and biting self-criticism. I should stop, clamber into bed and put such introspective judgement behind me, each yawn is more convincing than the last. Alas another closing, perhaps the last in this depressing sequence. Or perhaps not.

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