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Insomnia

I am a night person.
An "insomniac".

I compose my thoughts by the blue glow of a computer monitor when my mind rambles on after far too much caffeine, and the afternoon rainstorm takes its break to gloss the cobblestone roads and glisten the asphalt valleys of rural America.

It's an ease of breath, a tightening of the lung, a midnight chocolate slipping beneath the tongue and infiltrating each and every pore of the tongue. It's the strange scent of 11:55, that odd youth and naivety of 12:01AM, when the young are finding their way home in a desolate yet living town where "hanging out" is in fact, illegal.

It is in the town of many basements where lovers swarm in the midst of each other's auras, lapping up their sweet salvation like a dog in the bright August heat before it passes in the thunderstorm of grief and anxiety of work schedules and parental anger at another patchwork hickey on their necks and the rancid odor of young love as it enters and makes its exodus through the thresh-hold.

It's an old mistake, an old memory, an old paradise from the past. Captured not through polaroids but through a hyper-active amygdala that frames each kiss, each fondle with brutal exactitude only to find itself wrapping the victim in each of it's taunting portrayals of a dream that can never be had.

Finally, it is the drop and the surrender of this victim into a web of foggy, Freudian dreams until half past two when the white light shines through the blinds and indulges the victim in a new sense of "invigoration" and awakens them to what lies ahead tomorrow.

I am a night person, whose Freudian dreams crouched in a fetal position whose spine and whose passionate brain wraps around dreams like a child wraps his tongue around a delicious ice cream sundae on a silver spoon, I hang deftly from an orange and hollow moon.

I am a night person.