Strange Things

The evening grows late. I long to resign it to the wastebin, to sleep again, because at least sleep makes the time pass, makes the life pass and there's a short moment in my dreams when I am carefree; it's appealing. The headaches always begin with such strange visual dances and I have to try so hard not to look mad in my attempts to focus.

But I am not tired. The black stars in my eyes disappear and all is perfectly clear. And just as I begin to turn off lights and take off clothes, tiny trickles of words begin to migrate to my mind, to my fingers. It cannot be helped, streams of stories run from my hands. For a moment, I forget impending commitment and hopeless mornings. For a moment, I forget the dull throbbing of my mind against its restraints.

And in this one moment, I am happy.