Late Night Writing

A headache. Eyes closing in. Body is done with the day. But the fingers remain awake, titillated, hungry to find meaning. To create meaning. The head leans on the edge of the sofa, rubbing itself for an accidental massage. The best types of massages. I rub my forehead over and over again because even my skin feels heavy, feels forced, feels drained. Thing about night time is - it's for sleep. NOT delving into my creative muses in one o'clock in the morning. My body knows that. My eyes know that. But my head refuses to listen. And the fingers are like ants - working away for their queen ant; the mind. They never rebel or show any weakness. They surely have a lot to prove, these hands. These hands' ancestors built temples. These hands climbed mountains. These hands made fire, broke bread, fought wars, made love. And yes these hands wrote stories. These hands wrote about love. These hands wrote about meaning, and existence, and life, and dreams.... and now. Now these hands write about themselves. Because it's one o'clock in the morning and the mind doesn't know what else to write about.