I lay in wait of slumber.

My eyes draw heavy, yet my mind races. Can it not be stilled by stillness?

The weighty temptation of the closed eye’s lusty embrace, its breath along the nape of my neck, whispers my name, “Caitlin, fold into me. I am yours, alone.” Yet when I turn to meet his kiss, he is a ghost, a phantom Macbeth, murderer of sleep.

Literally, I got up to get a drink of water and some cold medicine (not sick, just awake) and now I sit in the dark at my computer typing in wonder, am I at the mercy of the furies of endless thought, or the fates; the only creatures that frightened even Zeus.

I always write prose when I am exhausted. Strange phenomenon.

Also, a guru level Atrological geek friend of mine once told me it was an Aries trait to have a mind that races faster than everyone elses; that we drive the rest of the world nuts by running circles around them while they struggle just to get a clear look at us. I feel, tonight, I am frustrating only myself.

Be still, mind. Tomorrow comes all too soon.


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