It's 3 in the morning and I'm still awake. I've slipped through a couple of half-dazed, half-asleep states already, and at this point there is really nothing left in my tank. My mind is blanker than the empty page on which a measly little cursor blinks in and out of sight.
Ah, the empty page.
Just a little recap of the past 19 hours: I churned out 18 200-word copies at work, went to town on 4 500-word articles, and have finished another copy before fighting another bout of heavy-eyelid syndrome. That's at least 5,800 words right there, in less than a day. And yet here I am, still typing away.
Is it for a lack of anything to do? I'm busy as hell; in fact, I don't think the devil himself is willing to subject himself to a 6,000-word day.
Maybe it's just because I just want to write. I've been doing the mindless, automatic shit for far too long (though admittedly not as long as others) that the writer in me, for all his pretensions and failed aspirations, is struggling to see the light of day.
Here you go, self. Here's your little piece of freedom. Now that you've gotten this far, well... at this point, I realize that it's 3:08, and 8 more copies are still on my plate. Freedom, once again, will have to wait.
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