Keystrokes and Blue Light

All that keeps me up at night

It’s half past ten and I just hol’ a fresh. I have work in the morning, and I haven’t decided what I’ll wear. My thermos still has this morning’s breakfast, and my dinner is in the fridge, uneaten. My nightly ritual of rambutan and chill won’t happen tonight because I’ve been struck. By guilt.

It’s a lump in my throat that eases as my words-per-minute increase(s). It’s an exhale—thumb and ring finger together, forcing my diaphragm out out and the air in in into my belly. Each word I type loosens the cloak. Eventually it will fall of my shoulders.

These are lychees, not rambutan. It seems I’ve been so focused on eating them, I haven’t taken any photos. Check back next week.

Perseverating, I have been. Inspiration comes in the noise and the action. But when it’s quiet in and beyond my mind—the best time to write—I want to sleep. Or I only think I want to sleep since most nights I am not asleep before midnight. So, what I want is not sleep, but rest.

My body takes no time to ease into bed, abandoning my mind in the persistent static of daily life. A loose faucet drip drip dripping. Tightened only by keystrokes or blue light. Maybe both? Production or consumption. Maybe both? Create or ingest. Maybe both? Cook my own dinner or order takeout?

All day, I do all day is produce! Create! Cook! Talk; explain; practice patience; smile; laugh; listen to a language I don’t understand. Listen to podcast after podcast in the language I do understand. At day’s end, I have a hunger I do not have the energy to satisfy. Even now, with my dinner in the fridge and my tummy starting to rumble, I’ll have only rambutan.

‘Twas an illusion that I had to. I can produce and consume. The cloak is off, and I’m under the covers. I made my keystrokes and now I’ll have my blue light.

Maâe Náam

This is Part 1 in a weekly series of personal, stream-of-consciousness micro-essays. The goal is more writing, less pressure, less guilt, more honesty.

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