No one in the apartment is awake, but it isn’t quiet. A
chorus of frogs sings outside in the pond, the dry, cold air from the vent blows
quietly as it sends chills up my spine, and the low hum of the air conditioning
unit goes on and on relentlessly. The darkness outside makes it seem like it
should be quiet, but the more I take notice, the louder and louder the
collective noise becomes, broken only by the screeching of wheels in the
distance or the loud croak of a bullfrog.
A dim lamp sits on the opposite end of the room, the light
barely reaching the desk – my fumbling hands lit by the bright screen of
the laptop. My pen scratches across the
tablet furiously; the poorly made nib has been overused and sharpened nearly to
a point. A mug of once hot, fragrant lavender tea, now cold and forgotten, sits off to the side.
Above the desk lies a cluttered cork board, scattered with tokens of inspiration that do not seem to inspire when you are running thin on time and trying to keep your
trembling hands steady.
Every now and then a muffled snore or shuffle will come from
the bedroom, and I’m reminded that I can’t afford the luxury of a good night's rest - not
tonight. I know that others have it worse, but being keenly aware of the strain
that lack of sleep will put on my body the following day has a way of dampening
my spirit. I know that this night, this week, this month is merely a blink in time in the grand scheme of things,
but anxiety seeps in and I can’t look away.
The blue light of the clock by the door seems to burn into
my mind, even when I’m not stealing glances. 1:15 AM. 3:37 AM. 4:45 AM. There is a progression of emotion that comes
with the stages of time passing, and I try to drown my doubts with music that
I’ve played time and time again. I keep the sound low, and my tired mind
latches onto the rhythm that it offers.
The chair seems to become less and less comfortable the
longer I stay put. Cramped into a corner, the little desk feels claustrophobic,
and the dim lighting doesn’t help much. A small flash drive blinks a bright
orange aside a tangle of cords protruding from the laptop. The clutter is
frustrating. During the brief moments that I set down the pen, my fingers don’t
seem to function properly. They were so molded into the shape of the pen and
the abrupt, repetitive movements of the strokes that even typing becomes a
challenge.
I reach a point where I have done all that I can do. The
laptop is closed, the light switch is off, and I stagger through the darkness,
reaching out for the door, grasping thin air. The sterile bathroom
light is incredibly bright, and it burns my eyes as I go through the motions, still compelled to treat this like any other night. I crawl into bed while it is
still dark, not wanting to see the sun rise. The fan buzzes above me and the
blankets feel heavier than they should. My racing thoughts begin to dim. A mourning dove calls softly outside.
There is a sinking feeling.
I blink.
The unwelcome alarm rings out from my phone on the other
side of the room. My eyes sting. If only the sun would stay down for a few more
hours.