Words

Night after night sleep had been as coveted as fame and fortune, but remained elusive. I reach out a slender

hand beckoning to it, reaching for it without even a murmur of an answer. Letters bump around in my head like drunks in a street brawl. They tumble around lost and shapeless. I try to capture them and restore some type of order, but their randomness is stubborn. My sleeping domain is dark with only the hum of a window fan churning as quiet as a well oiled engine. It's tune is soothing and it's breeze is cool and welcoming. My eyes become heavy and dim although sleep escapes me. Instead the breath of the fan slowly gathers the letters. They stand and march into formation like a platoon of soldiers. Their lines are symmetrical and as beautiful as a manicured garden. The words are forming and I can't ignore them. They won't let me. They demand that I notice them. They march. The beat begins. It plays louder and louder and I can't ignore it. My fingers reach for the lamp switch. My computer is on my lap before I realize what my hands have done. The letters are forming word after word, sentence after sentence. The beat plays. The words become paragraphs. The beat plays. I type every word to the beat inside my head. The beat. Words. The beat. Words. My fingers move across the keyboard with the rhythm and before I know it thousands of words have made themselves comfortable on the page. When I glance the clock, I'm shocked to learn I have spent hours with my friends. As my finger press the final period I feel spent as if I have run a marathon. The sleep I have coveted night after night showers itself upon me like fame and fortune. Brigitta