The thoughts of a midnight writer

The room rumbled like it was in the center of a storm. My desk shook and everything seemed to jitter nervously, hopping and shaking like a scared animal. My pen clacked as it fell and rolled on the floor, my stack of books toppled over, and my fairy lights never seemed to stop their incessant flickering. The melodic sound of thunder and static filled my ears and refused to leave, not that I was complaining, I hadn’t felt this relaxed in a long time. My hands flew across the keyboard, but none of my words made sense, I kept going not pausing long enough to second guess myself. I wanted to cry and scream at the same time but the most I would let myself do is write. So there I was, three in the morning and staring angrily at my fluorescent computer screen, squinting and typing madly like a college student prone to waiting until the last minute to finish a paper. I came to the realization that this was both heaven and hell, and I didn’t have nearly enough willpower to explain why to a computer who would no doubt make a mockery of me later when I reread my poorly composed explanation. I had too many feelings flying around in my mind, and if I let them just sit there I’d surely go mad. I was already insane, perfectly bonkers and yet I still felt like I could fall further away from normality with just a slight nudge; toppling off the cliff of physiological awareness like a bird leaving the nest for the first time. My spine ached and my head beat itself into oblivion. I really wanted to read what I’d written over again but I couldn’t let myself, I had to keep going, no looking back or I’d lose it. Whatever it was. Write what you see, don’t look back. Candy wrappers were tossed lazily around my desk and my wallet sat open and empty. I never really held on to money for long. The wheel of my spiny chair connected with the stack of books I kept next to my bed, knocking them over and scaring the living daylights out of me (serves me right for being such a moron anyway). The room still hadn’t stopped rumbling and I felt dizzy. My hands froze up and my resolve flickers. Why do I even bother? I’ve never written anything worthwhile in my whole goddamn life. What made me think I could now? And on the brink of a mental breakdown too. Well it doesn’t matter now. Everything’s gone, the rumbling, the shaking, and all my ideas; gone like they were never there. I sat back in my chair, rubbing my sore eyes and yanking out my earbuds. I guess I’ll just finish next time I need to cry.