Nocturnal Admissions
Bedtime is two hours past, ideally. Only one in practical terms. My wallet pokes at my cheek ready and waiting for morning even when I'm not done with night. New music is no longer spinning, not off, just digital. The weight of earlier words trimmed by a diet of meals, music, and the all-knowing unfeeling Internet. I sit in my chair, back tilted one way, head the other. I'm not exactly waiting for that one thing that will cap it all off. Would it help if I heard applause? The credits rolled? I don't. They don't. So I search some more. Will I find it on screen? Should I have sipped on caffeine? My brain and my finger dance, though not together. I am surrounded by a mess of my making- letters written that will go unsent, next to plastic discs that go unthrown, all sprinkled with clothes in varying stages of clean; an optimist launders here. My bed is not three feet away, but my dreams are nowhere in sight. I'm sure I could sleep, but I won't close my eyes. Until now. I quiet my mind with some words. Perhaps they are stolen; I don't own them. I just rearrange them and try to be heard. Is that my voice? Is this my choice?

Inertia.