Late.

Typed this last night on my computer. Because I have nothing better to do at night. But I still don’t sleep.

———-

It’s late. It’s more than late, its tomorrow already. My brain is in overdrive despite it being under-fueled and underfed and according-to-oh-so-many-people, underachieved. My impoverished mind is screaming out, get down from here, get to bed, sleep. You have school in less than five hours, I’m saying to myself, and you haven’t slept or done your homework from today’s – yesterday’s – classes. You’ve screwed yourself. My rational side isn’t very nice. But it’s right. I get off of my chair and then set my laptop down on the floor and push down the off button with my toe, and then, with foot that is holding said toe, pull down the top of the laptop and shut it. I’m ready to go to bed and then I reach towards my lamp to darken the room and remove its lazy little yellow bumblebee tint from the walls, and then of course, I get hit by inspiration.

Inspiration: like a light bulb. No, not like a light bulb; it’s nothing nearly so cliché. It wouldn’t be a light bulb anyway, not really. There is no proverbial “switch” that I can metaphorically “flip” and then automatically, at the speed of my lazy little bumblebee tint colors my walls every night when I set down to work/play/vent at my laptop, watch as my brain is filled with otherwise impossible sequences of word and language that comes together to form the perfect sentence, the perfect line, the perfect anything, really, because inspiration, it doesn’t work like that. Inspiration is more like that feeling you get when, for the first time, you’re finally kissing that girl you’ve been looking at for months now, that girl who you aren’t sure knows you exist, that girl who everyday passes you in the hall, and though you’ve never spoken to her or waved or flashed a smile her way – because, come on, you DON’T WANT TO CREEP HER OUT – you watch as she walks right past you and the world slows down for a moment, that moment, and at that moment you and her are the only two people in the school hallway and you? You’re invisible to her, and you wouldn’t have it any other way, or so you think, but now, you’re kissing her! You’re kissing her, and you don’t know it then but it is THE BEST KISS OF YOUR LIFE, not in that week, that month, that year, but that life, and now it’s happening and you realize you don’t want to FUCK THIS UP so you run your hand from that safe place cupping her why’s-it-feel-so-right? waist to her face and you feel the heat, the electricity, the fire, the DESIRE and suddenly you realize what the hell The Velvet Underground meant when Cohan said “Like a dirty French novel/Combines the excerpt with the vulgar/It’s some kind of love” and, despite it being two different songs, you are sure that you have found your Sweet Jane. And then? Then you get interrupted.

That’s inspiration.

I turn on the laptop again, wait for it to boot, and then begin to type.

I check the clock.

Tomorrows going to suck.

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