Somewhere
Clock tick, ticking in the silence of the apartment
or
the apartments because there are nine in the block
and
I’m the only one awake at this time,
in
these hours where I should be elsewhere
and
not writing, or reading or dropping benzodiazepine for sleeping
and
my body aches for sleep
but
my mind tells my body to fuck off
and
get up, get going and do something
and
I’m on the sofa with a pen in one hand
and
a notebook in the other and a book by my side
and
the clock keeps ticking
and
to think that somewhere the sun is rising
and
somewhere else it’s setting on another day
as
the momentum of our forward roll takes us around
a
big ball of light and heat that keeps us here,
alive,
going nowhere except forward;
rolling, rolling
in space time, in real time,
(who’s got the time anyway?)
as
somewhere to the east of me the sun is coming up
and
somewhere to the west of me it’s going down
as
10,000 lives have just left
and
10,000 have just begun
and
we just keep on rolling. Somewhere.
My Words, My World 
Bittersweet observations? Unsolicited, having once been all too familiar with those late night or early morning urges to act upon some nudge or force, I finally abandoned the call (or drive). I chose to not compromise my sleep, a gift I cherish. And lo, when I then decided to apply pen to paper, it became a less insistent exercise. Thoughts and words came easier and I simply invited the act to unfold as it felt given permission.
My version/solution. 😉 You did’t ask for it; I simply felt compelled to share. Warm wishes, Chris, for a healthy and happy 2019.