When did I get so old, unable to stay awake, long gone those nights of laying on a living room floor listening to music and talking until the sun came up, having revelations and inspirations at 3am over diner food and infinite cups of coffee, frenzied painting at late hours.
And now, I'm fighting to keep my eyes open, wondering why the caffeine doesn't work like it once did, maybe it's the connection with people and if not that the creative process that keeps me feeling awake and alive and lacking either of those, I'm dead to the world or wishing I was.
Writing this late is my equivalent of being drunk, becoming either absurdly slap-happy or existential and emotional as the inner life bleeds out. I don't get drunk for that reason alone, because I do and say enough stupid that I don't need any other reason to do so. The euphoria and melancholia are already too saturated and intense and every fear and hope is amplified to deafening and debilitating decibel.
I don't expect anyone to fill that void of loneliness, because it's the human condition, the state of the soul even at its most loved but that doesn't stop the longing held in by veneers of cynicism and sarcasm so easy to see through. The constancy of dreams deferred is a hard thing.