The loss of sight.
The back resists sitting.
The table occupied with the things
that moved throughout the day.
The glare that has been witness
to endless humps.
Plugged in, they await their time.
The last click.
Photo by Ethan Hoover on Unsplash
The chair moves, a crunch
the back awaited.
A dead hang stretch
to get into bed.
The work has been done.
The will to continue still persists;
the back permeates opposite.
Blue white screen glow still,
illumination that shadows need.
The mind that was fixated throughout,
head plugged with the jarring.
The noise, uninvited, seeps.
A call, neither here nor there.
Dishes being washed.
The doubts whether the work pushed,
clarity that won’t last.
The day already gone,
that lasted so long.
But the hour that belongs to no one
is upon me.
The feeling.
The urgency, for what?
It is time.
The slumber, the rest.
Mind outrunning sleep.
Dead weight of eyelids.
Dim.
The world reduced to a room.
Desires pushed as I veiled,
not to end, but continue.
The defaulter, who slipped and watched.
The hand forgets.
The timer counts down.
Photo by Tudor Baciu on Unsplash
Nothing waits ahead.
Nothing follows.
Only the body,
continuing out of refusal to end,
not the same.
Many days have ended the same, work being forced, desire pushed forward with the quiet belief that there will be a time later, a time not now. Midnight makes these thoughts feel urgent, as if they demand to be settled immediately, even though they never are. I tell myself I will rest with nothing in mind, that I will be able to read a book I actually like, return to the things I loved doing as a kid, but these promises surface only at this hour, when the body is exhausted and the mind starts bargaining. Endless slumber waits ahead, imagined as relief, as closure, and for that imagined rest, I work, night after night.
Midnight Letters Prompt #19: What feels urgent only because it’s midnight?
It is 06:30 PM GMT here.