With one last glance at the time-12:31am-I finally close my computer on my lap and stare out into space as I listen and wait for the hum of the engine to die down. It's in older computer, and I'm not sure if laptops even make these sounds anymore, but mine does and I appreciate that it fills the silence. Without it my mind may be running in circles trying to grip onto something solid. The hum is subtle to the point that it could just be another ring in your ears-a sound no one else can hear-and you wouldn't notice. Then, it stops. Dropping out of the air rapidly and leaving me clinging for another sound to grab hold of. My search takes no time at all, because it the background of everything I do they is always noise. The hum of my radiator, the rush of the occasional car outside, the crunch of mice ripping up papers fallen behind my dresser, the snapping sound my toes make when I crack them similar to how people crack their knuckles, but for some reason I could only ever crack my toes. There are a lot of things to pay attention to. I look around my room and think there are a lot of things to interact with; there is no reason for me to be at a loss for words right now. No reason for me to know not what to do, and yet here we are.
I know what I should do, get ready for bed and prepare to wake up early tomorrow morning to make up for what I didn't do today. But something about that doesn't seem right, doesn't seem complete. For a while now I've thought about writing a book, a disguised autobiography. A book about me, but not really. A story that I could play with and use to describe my thoughts without sounding too self-important. Then, in the end, I'd wrap it all up by saying, "There has to be something more" or something equally as ambiguously tempting. Although, I could never focus my thoughts enough to get going with any serious story, nor could I write seriously about any fictional character. I knew the story would have to go somewhere and it couldn't be a conclusion without a body, or a recapitulation without an exposition. It would need a focal point, which is where the story would have verged away from my own life and into its own, because no real life had a focal point, not for too long at least. It always hops from one important event to another, so gradual you almost think it makes perfect sense. Then, you sit down at your computer and try to write it down in words and realize you have no idea where to begin. And so you never begin. Instead you teach yourself to appreciate the masterpieces that others have created, as opposed to hating the fact the you had not created it yourself. You teach yourself to realize that no matter how empty your days are, no one else on the planet is living theirs quite like you are. That doesn't make special it makes you just like everyone else. I'm still staring out into space with my closed laptop on my knees and my chin in my hand. I don't know exactly what I'm trying to remember, but I hope it comes to me before I go to sleep, because I can barley think with the lights on and my warm computer on my thighs, but with the lights off in the cold of November with nothing to stare into but the dark I doubt I'll find the inspiration I need to allow the next day to come. I don't know if I'll ever find that inspiration, but I hope that one day I make something with my two hands that make defiantly staring down the night sky out the window of my lit bedroom at 1:11am worth it. I guess I could just as easily dismiss my 1 in the morning diatribe as any other sane human being, but where's the fun in that? I mean this could be the start of an awesome story, or short film, or letter to my future self explaining why I never got anything done. Spoiler, it's because I can't focus on anything and always find myself getting up and pacing back and forth. No matter what I'm doing I'll want to walk around my room while doing it. Except when I read; well I used to read while walking, but recently I've reading while sitting still and it's not so bad although I still have to stop and process information about the book out loud every now and then. I say 'have to' as if I can't stop, I can I just don't want to because I can't write and I'm average at best in academics, I need something. Something else I have is a grave fear of rambling. I am afraid that in my attempt at explaining a topic I diverge from the original trail and step onto a new one. I fear that is the point where I am lost and do my best to grip onto landmarks to guide me back. Although, the best way to cure a case of the rambles is to stop altogether. And so I'll stop and start again a different day. I am not sure what I got from this, if anything, but I think I am ready to say good bye to today and all the amazing things that could've happened and all the good things and all the bad things about today. Today is one of many, the focus is always changing and though it may seem this is a day worth saying something about I've got to give tomorrow a chance too. I could make it so much better. Then, maybe what I write will be worthy of unfamiliar eyes.
I set my computer in my desk drawer and leave the cord scattered on the floor. I brush my teeth and almost fall into the rhythm of pacing back and forth while I brush, but I remember what tomorrow is-another chance-and walk straight out of the bathroom shutting off the light behind me. I peel away the sweater I'd been wearing over my pajamas all day and climb under the covers. It's cold at first, but I know that if I stay relatively in the same spot my body heat will change that. And so I stop shimming around and settled in for a long ride. I think I'm dreaming while I'm awake and I believe I have awoken when in fact it's all fake, and right when I thought I could not be any further at the edge of reality and comatose blackness pushes me over the edge and my story ends.
