times I find myself working too much at night. Take for instance, as I write this, it’s nearly 8 p.m. and all I can think about is crawling into bed. But, here I am, sipping on a La Croix and typing up this post.
Most nights it’s not carbonated water I’m drinking.
Typically, to keep myself motivated I’m drinking coffee, black.
Caffeine addiction is a terrible business, but, the older I get, the earlier I want to go to bed. It’s so easy to just go to sleep and, not to mention, it feels so good to shut down for the night.
But, more often than not, I’m ignoring sleep and putting mouth to cup filled with that bitter blend.
I’m not really sure what this post is about, and I know it’s not to encourage sleepless nights and too much caffeine.
It’s more personal than that.
I’m not sure what it is specifically I’m searching for – reaching for, really, but I know it’s something. There are days where it feels like I’m working day and night trying to accomplish something with my life.
Most of the time I’m not sure if I’m getting better or worse, but I’m always trudging forward. It’s hard to replace sleep with work, but when you’re working a day job and having coffee to keep your motivated for your night job, there’s not much in between.
That’s okay, though. I don’t know what I would do with an open room – an hour to kill without thinking too much or craving anything more.
Sometimes I think it’s my depression, or my OCD: most of the time it feels like a combination of both. I’m constantly torn between not wanting to do anything and not being able to stop. You’d think there’d be a balance there–easy to find and walk the line, but it’s always too much of one or the other.
Most often I can’t tell the difference between wanting and needing to do this, or to have that coffee. My brain is always overstimulated and hard to shut down. Sometimes I sleep too much; it’s just me resetting. Sometimes I don’t sleep at all. I’m not sure which is worse.
But I think it’s the nights without coffee.
I’m not sure why I wrote this all down. Maybe I just needed to get it out. Maybe I was just looking for someone to relate to.
Whatever the reason is, I hope it helped. I know it helped me. Maybe there’s a possibility it helped you too. I hope it helped someone.
are hard, but they keep me going and pay the bills.
gives me the fuel for everything else.
Sometimes I feel so full of words that I might explode with them. Writing helps me get them out, gives me a place to put them down. It’s a sort of therapy, and I’m not sure I could live without putting hands to keys and letting it all bleed out on the blank page.
Words circulating like blood and forming new patterns for new eyes or old eyes, young and old: for all eyes.
Maybe, just maybe, it all means Something
and maybe it won’t be all for nothing in the end.
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