Writing It Out
The castle is still.
I am not.
But I never am.
The room is gently lit by my bedside lamp, and now by the glow of my computer screen as I type.
The garden outside is lit by the lamp-post’s orange emanation. Its light creeps under my blind as the early morning sky gradually shifts from black to blue.
I don’t want to be awake
But I’m bored of trying to sleep
I feel guilty for giving in.
For not lying longer in the darkness.
I feel no annoyance or frustration.
I feel calm.
I am worn out.
The familiar buzz of discomfort hums in my middle
Pain fingers my spine.
I’ve run out of ways to lie,
I’ve taken all the medication.
And the heat packs that a few hours ago offered some relief have lost their heat.
I have nothing new to say,
But writing felt suddenly essential.
32 minutes and
167 words later
I’m ready to sink back into darkness.