Why am I awake at this hour? It is Eleven at night, you wake up in six hours… should you not be in bed?
Yes, I should be. But I am awake for a reason.
Maybe I am grieving, like I was about a month ago. Hoping, wishing, praying that, by staying awake, the reality I am living in would cease to exist and I would wake up with Bear rubbing his head against mine. Mewing when I did not pet him because I am too disoriented after being abruptly awakened.
Maybe I had a long day, and I did not get anything that I wanted to do accomplished. I am not doing anything now, I am probably stuck in a YouTube trap, but I am getting some me-time, and that is what matters. When I have a bad day, I do the same thing.
Maybe I am writing a song. My headphones are on. Almost every time I write a song, I am listening to a new song that I fell in love with on repeat. If I am writing, I probably messed up or did something I regret that day. But sometimes, like when LOST was released on Thursday, I have just been inspired. If I suspect any plagiarism, I erase the song. This has only happened once, because I write about my life and my regrets.
Maybe my best friend and I are having a discussion. We can talk for hours… so I probably will not be going to sleep until I look at my clock and realize that it is 12:30, and we have been texting since 8 P.M.
That is why I am awake at 11. I do not want to be awake at this hour (unless I am writing a song), but it is a coping mechanism. Odd that I have one. I am typically a pretty happy person, and being surrounded by people is enough to make me happy. Which is also odd. I'm antisocial and introverted. But things that do not make any sense about me is enough to write a book… there is not enough room in this.
it's 11 and I'm staring at the hotel ceiling,
too late to call you but too early to sleep.
the same starched white sheets and rattling AC surround me,
echoes of countless nights like this, in rooms long since forgotten,
though I'd like to believe this one is special.
I am lying atop the sheets, fully clothed,
tracing shapes with my fingertip in the cracked plaster above,
listening to sirens on the highway below
as I try to remember the color of your eyes.
tomorrow I will wake and leave this place,
leave the memory of you for room service to take away,
to bleach and starch and place in another room all too identical to this one,
forgotten as I fall asleep under yet another hotel ceiling.
11 p.m.; who cares? Honestly, it seems like the perfect time to chat.
My brain is dead; you can say what you wanna say and I'll just nod.
I'll go, "Hmm...", if I disagree, but nothing else.
Who dares to start up an argument that late at night?
11 p.m.; who cares? It will end soon.
The shackles will clamp around my ankles again.
I will return to the cage, but this will be the last time.
I'll go in and leave again; gloriously victorious.
11 p.m.; who cares?
It is the end of my late nights, for it is time to rise up early again.
Exercise routines don't get themselves done; also,
The peace of the mornings only last so long.
Guess you'll just stay a time in my mind.
We'll never be friends.
You are just some daily checkpoint; reached after I already laid down my head to rest.
An hour before midnight and sleep will not come,
Phone in your hands,
In your face,
Eye sigh hurting but Tik Toc is calling,
Updates, pictures, videos, and posts,
A picture of you laying there,
A video of you attempting to make a realistic yawn,
Not a mouse peeps,
The cat got them all,
As you scroll,
Blinking and hoping a yawn will come soon,
But attempts are futile,
And sleep is miles away.
Time is Irrelevant
My eyes traced the cracks within the ceiling above. Each little crevasse catching my attention under the pale moon light, seeping into my room through the opening's in the teal curtains that shaded my window.
I sighed heavily. Every breath I took felt like a stab wound. It hurt to breath, almost as if I were affected by COVID-19.
I looked to my left, observing all the jackets and hoodies that hung from hooks on my door as sleep refused to take me under into the black abyss. Each peice of fabric that hung in the air was diffrent in size and color. No two were the same.
Looking to my left, the immediate thing that caught my eye was the protruding device, sticking to my wall. A camera, the blue light staying dormat, informing me I wasn't currently being looked over.
Next were the posters pinned to my wall. All of legendary Pokemon I had become so accustomed to looking at. I closed my eyes, try despratly to yeild to sleep.
My attention turned to the teal sheets that covered my large figure. They were rough and yet so soft. I didn't want to leave the warmth they provided on this cold, winter night.
My head, supported by three pillows stacked on one another in an attempted to elevate my head, succeding at the task.
As my eyes stayed shut, I tried to calm the thoughts racing through my head at such a late hour.
A late hour... What time was it, in fact?
Surely not before ten, it'd felt like I had been lying down for and eternity!
There was no way it was passed tweleve though, the night was much too young for that.
Perhaps we shall settle on something between the two.
a flawed witching hour-
the discordant tapping of
metal in a music box,
steps on floors of ice
dreams with eyes open,
like a photograph
with burned edges.
the day is melting,
but not finished,
exhausted but not
it halts often,
stars beyond the curtain,
screaming to be seen
The night is calm. The sky is starless. The darkness is heavy. I stand here on my balcony, smoke a cigarette, and observe the street beneath me. The street is empty. No souls wander down there. The silence is unusual. Never has it been so quiet here. Weird…
I finish the cigarette and return to my room. A book sits on the bed. It’s a book of love and a book of death. I lie down on the bed and continue to read this fascinating book.
I lower the book on the bed, stand up and go to the bathroom. As I pass by the mirror, I notice something weird. I stop and look at myself in the mirror. My skin… so pale… my eyes… so lifeless… What is this?
My phone starts to vibrate. I pick it up: 7 unread messages. They are all from my wife, and they were all sent two hours ago.
1st message: “I’ll be coming home late tonight. This job is crazy.”
2nd message: “You don’t have to make me dinner. I’ll eat something at work.”
3rd message: “Come pick me up. My car won’t start.”
4th message: “You don’t have to come. I heard there’s been an accident on the road. It will be blocked for an hour at least.”
5th message: “Are you home?”
6th message: “Why aren’t you answering me?”
7th message: “Honey…”
How didn’t I hear my phone before? Damn it… I type in a message: “I’m home, honey. I’m waiting for you.” I press send, but it fails to send the message. Damn it!
I light another cigarette on my balcony. My wife still hasn’t come home. Fear rises in me. Where is she? Despite that accident, she should’ve already come home. My poor wife… She works for the entire day. She deserves some rest.
Someone rings the doorbell. It’s probably her. I run to open the door. I open them and see a hooded figure standing there.
“Honey?” I ask with a hint of fear.
The figure lowers its hood. “Come…” it whispers.
My heart skips a beat when I see the figure’s face. Well, there is no face. There is only the skull… and the pale eyes that pierce my soul. What is this vile creature?
“Who… who are you?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m sorry I haven’t introduced myself. I am Death.”
“Why is Death knocking upon my door?”
“Because your time to leave the mortal realm has come.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Death says and raises its hand. “Take my hand and come now.”
I don’t even finish the sentence when Death grabs me by the hand and pulls me out of my apartment. It takes me out of the building and into the silent street. We walk through the street toward the light at its end. I try to resist it, but soon I give in. Overwhelming tranquility conquers me. Finally, I feel free…
Time seems to be stilled as I stare at the clock. Did it usually take this long for a single minute to pass by? Father will be here any moment.
A part of me wishes that I could just fall asleep now and act as if nothing happened. But the logical part of me knows that would be a terrible idea. My punishment would only be worse.
I punched someone and Father saw it. How he happened to be passing by that corner of the town at that exact moment, I have no idea. He was supposed to be at work.
And I was supposed to be at school.
Maybe he didn't know it was me. Maybe he just drove by and didn't look back. That is entirely possible, but I know it isn't the truth.
He saw. The expression on his face proved it.
And then anger.
No, I won't be getting out of this one easy. I won the fight earlier, leaving the boy a bloody mess, but this one will not be in my favor.
"You get what you give."
That is his motto and I know he means it. A rose for a rose. A fist for a fist.
We used to play a game when I was younger and he was a good father. If we weren't together at 11:11 p.m. we would both make a wish. It helped when I was a child because it distraced me from the fact that I felt alone.
Tonight I would rather be alone.
The sound of a key turning the lock fills the silent room. Before he can open the door I make a wish, hoping it's not my last.
"Please let me see tomorrow."
Its late and I cannot see the sun anymore.
My eyes are blinking,
My body screams that it needs sleep.
Just one more hour.
I'll wait 'til Midnight.
"I'll be fine," I tell myself.
I just need to finish this paper.
I just need to finish this game.
I just need to finish this show.
I never notice when my head falls.
And I wake up the next morning,
Wondering if I ever made it past