My Moment of Silence

It's just a little past midnight and I'm in bed, typing in the dark with only the screen illuminating the keyboard of my laptop, however dimly. My fingers glide along the keys by memory, occasionally having to retrace a step to the right letter.

I suppose that I should be asleep but this is actually my best moment of clarity. With only the usual noise of a sleeping household and the distant hum of the dishwasher, my brain seems to be at its most productive moment. For better or worse.

My mind wanders to the day's events as it stumbles upon itself trying to reach into tomorrow. I suspect that this is probably how others see me and how I actually am even in the middle of the day. Do I seem scattered to others? If they do, they aren't wrong. I go through days in leaps and bounds–starting much but finishing little–with my thoughts, in haphazard order, never quite making it out of the mental gate.

I'm depressed by my seeming inability to get into a more focused routine. I can't blame anyone but myself. It's an internal battle that I haven't given time to really face, knowing that I should. I look to these late nights as my dysfunctional solace from the daily grind and a reprieve against all the decisions I have to make.

In these quiet moments, I want to cry, hide, and wish for something different. If I was honest, there isn't a day that I wish my responsibilities would fade away. I've begun to hate sleep because–even then–my worries seem to follow me in a vivid metaphor of my fears and failures.

In the morning, I wake up with the pure intent to set aside the day before and start fresh only to find meself like a trapped squirrel in a cage wheel.

Spinning.

Once again going nowhere.