I’m in the middle of a sleepless night. Only two and a half hours until sunrise. My back pain won’t let me relax. I need to stretch, only there’s no room to move which is the real problem. No room to move, no place to stretch, no way to grow. What should I expect from 800 square feet of space and a family of four. This is New York, the city that never sleeps and now I know why.
Since I have all the time in the world to think and put my life in order you would think I would be further down the road wouldn’t you. That sounds self-deprecating and I don’t want to come across to anyone as troubled or riddled with anxiety. I’m troubled and riddled with anxiety. Maybe because I’m still awake with less than two hours left until dawn or it’s because writing is all I want to do and when it’s a struggle and the words won’t come and the day ticks away without one good sentence, I fall apart. My entire day falls apart like cheap generic brand tissue. It feels useless and wasted which makes me troubled and stressed.
Why would something I love be so temperamental? Maybe I’m the temperamental one, sulking and stomping around and pounding my fist when words don’t come to me. Waiting is hard for me. So is silence and sometimes there just isn’t anything to say. Sometimes, like tonight, all I can do about anything is wait.
I could sing that song about the sun from the musical “Annie” but then I’ll wake the neighbors and they might throw me out in the street, which would give me more space but that’s not exactly progress.