What you don’t realise is that waiting is the hardest part. I don’t sleep anymore. Not really.
Granted its in a bed and at night. It’s dark and quiet. The world has slipped to slumber. But it eludes me nonetheless.
My eyes grow heavy. I can feel them tremble and droop. I can sense my consciousness sap and begin to tumble into the un-consciousness. But this isn’t sleep. Not really.
I wait for the black, the nadir. Then the light and the next day. Or is it a continuation of this day? This long never-ending day?
My writing pauses, but my planning doesn’t. I am committed. I am a warrior of words. My battles stop momentarily, but my war continues unabated. I plan for the next attack of vowels and synonyms while I wait for “sleep.”
The writing is easy. The waiting is the hardest part.