it's not the first time I've written about insomnia

...and it's definitely not going to be the last.

There is something about those dark spaces in the sky that draws words from my insides. It's like they were harboring somewhere under my chest and got stuck in my throat on the way out, but out they swim into the room as it felt like a cold night breeze. They swirl, hit my eardrums and find each other. Like magnets, they find the ones they belong with. They're like yarn too, as they knot themselves up into sentences.

I'll wear them like a story and dress up like a tale of imagination, formed from more words. They are letters, buzzing around the hive of my midnight labyrinth-like mind. Out of the thorns and shadows, come words from those letters. They go sift like a hand in a barrel of dry beans, sift for the ones they belong before, then after. I sit in a "word trance", a helpless vessel to myself and my inner artist, and I knit these words. They wait for the swift presses to catch up, but for I am barely not swift enough, they just loop around. Patiently they repeat continuously, an annoyingly so, they loop.

Then I look at the fluorescent lights. The air touches my lungs, and the last few words trickle out like trembling crumbs at the bottom end of a crumpled bag.

And just like that, loops in the word-yarn. Then again, that is why I write.