Today is a write-off

Content warning: References to drugs and metaphors of sexual violence

(Super mild. You can probably handle it, I believe in you)

*Clears throat and cracks fingers*

Every time I try to “do” anything, God cuts me down with a night of insomnia.

At first this seemed like a curse because I would feel so inspired and make plans only to have them thwarted by the bastard irony of being too tired to execute them. Smote I am now, for it is 2.39am and I am already certain that tomorrow is going to be a write-off.

Only something in me is realizing the blessing lies within the phrasing; tomorrow is going to be a write-off! I am literally condemned to the fate of writing all day because reclining on the couch is will be my top speed. In a sleep deprived condition I will be unable to fight off the weight of the laptop and will have to surrender to it's warm purring on my lap for the entire day. How TERRIBLE!

Interacting with people; whether in person, over the phone, even in my mind, are all crossed off the list now because I'm been blessed with a nervous system who decides that 90 minutes of sleep is perfectly sufficient. At least sufficient to refresh my mind for the next race, enough for my eyes to open and my hands to type but not so much refreshment as to get the rest of the body or executive functions involved, no, better let them continue to sleep.

Someone described Ketamine to me once, they said to imagine your consciousness is a large multi-story office building. Evening falls, one by one the lights switch off as workers leave, until eventually the only light still burning is the one above your desk.

I can appreciate the analogy, despite having felt it only once through that modality. I experience it far more reliably with meditation and passively, I am gifted it through insomnia. Automatomnia.

It’s like you’re working the graveyard shift, the background chatter of the day has departed, all unnecessary functions have been shut down, and you’re left to focus only on what is in front of you.

I composed the first 289 words of this laying awake in the dark before admitting it’s happening and getting out of bed. I fired up the laptop, opened up Reedsy for the first time in years and of course this is the theme for the weekly writing contest:

"Graveyard Shift. Writers stay up all night. etc etc"

Basically the universe saying. "We are talking to you."

Uncanny does not begin to cut it, yet I am neither elated nor perturbed - because the lights that feel strong emotion are off, the lights that follow trails of thought through various rooms are off.

I exist entirely within the sphere of what I see in front of me, which is black font on a lit screen, accentuated by a peripheral blur of fingers and nothing else.

Nothing else exists right now.

No one is writing this; she is asleep.

This is merely an act happening out of fulfilment of a deep and persistently ignored yearning to write words that need to be expressed for their own sake.

If I were awake, I'd make this about something and ruin it, but I am sleepwalking and writing is happening.

I’ve yearned to write subconsciously for so long, but denied it by thinking. I see why insomnia is truly a blessing. Now, in this liminal state I’m free to write without trying to win anything, for the prize inside me is the fact that writing is happening.

I’ve been so full up with more words than I could carry; occasionally they would just fall out of me at inappropriate places, like walking into a library with an armful of slippery fish. It’s best that I dedicate them to paper, where they can be viewed by those who are ready or archived to the annals of anonymity. Whatever the case, they will be out of me, which is most important.

See, I write not for attention but for literal necessity. I just want to be free of the ever re-building urge, to get the words out of me. The trouble is they keep on coming, faster than I can manage to process them and usually while I’m in the shower.

Some people complain about writer’s block; I say stop rubbing it in.

Typically, I wake up each day and inwardly whisper, “This is it, I’m free, if I move quietly maybe the words can’t find m- oh fuck they’re here, not again!” and from then on, my non-consensual pounding begins. Words, phrases, poems, and ideas, coming ready or not to the space between my ears. Philosophies! Four at a time! Double that amount if I’m trying to sleep or drive. Anytime it’s inconvenient to access paper, I’m stuffed to the brim with words.

I realize that channelling is occurring in these times because I’m not trying to write. When I'm not trying to do anything. My muscle memory knows how to wash my hair or steer the car; my mind has done it so many times that she has created an autopilot system. That frees her up to wander away from the task, she doesn't care where she goes, all she knows is that boredom is a fate worse than death and it is her biological impetus to escape it at all costs. So my mind ambles through the meadows only to be absolutely raped by The Muse.

When completing automated tasks, my consciousness becomes the perfect fecund soil for The Muse to implant. The extremophile Muse can only procreate on this razor's edge between doing and witnessing. Unfortunately, I'm in that space a great deal of the time because, well, the vogue term is neurodivergence.

I don’t mind though. I’ve grown to like it. In that I cannot change it. Literally, if what I say above is true that would mean the only way to stop the words coming and causing this irresistible urge to write would be to sit down and TRY to write! Maddening. Imprisoned by this inescapable predicament, I may as well submit to Stockholm and learn to love it.

My conscious awareness was padded by a thick blanket of foggy denial that any creativity was happening though, after all I was "supposed to be working" .

I thought I was just a normal 30 something year old, albeit maybe a little bit directionless. A part of me couldn't bear to let it be known that I wasn't driving the car or having the conversation, that I was actually around the corner being repeatedly fertilised by The Muse.

I've been existing this way for years, acting like a hard worker with "typical" goals but always inwardly yearning for the next interaction with The Muse. Ironically the hardest work of all was denial, it became exhausting, putting on a front, while being secretly laden with the accumulated weight of his words, pregnant with all the potential possibilities he's filled me with, yet never expressing them.

Oh! The torture of wanting to take these words out, to play with them, yet staying safe by supressing them lest they attract consequences.

All entirely subconscious of course, only translating as nonspecific weariness and general loss of meaning in life.

That is until yesterday, when all the fragments of my being fused seamlessly together during a phone call with a close friend, who happens to be herself, a shameless recipient of The Muse. I was midway through me telling her the outcome of a recent dental appointment I had when, context be damned, she suddenly ejaculated- “YOU’RE A WRITER!”.

So The Muse was getting to me through her now. Hmm. She pointed out my knack for attracting unusual interactions with people and flair for describing them through endless analogies. As the 'duh' moment kicked in, my life regained meaning. A vision of my lustre and vitality returning due to living harmoniously with my whims, encouraging them. Realising my freedom is not harming people, but potentially helping them!

I knew writing to be a true calling, I can't even reply to a simple text message without maxing out the word limit, yet I'd never consciously allowed myself to identify with it because a part of me was waiting for permission. Here it was.

That very afternoon, I decided, "I'll do it tomorrow as I have way too much too do, or maybe actually next week, there is just so much else to do first."

BING! That phrase was the incantation that invoked this insomnia.

It didn't have to come to this but I wouldn't go the easy way. I brought this on myself for ignoring him. Insomnia is a way The Muse can access me that I can't ignore.

Each time I hinder his creations, he uses sleep deprivation to literally paralyse other aspects of my being until I am forced to give in to him.

This experience has taught me that since I’m cursed/(or blessed) by this affliction where I am constantly downloading information from the Akasha, a persistent after-effect, post penetration from The Muse - I may as well own it as my rightful occupation to distribute this information into the world.

I'm learning not to care how words I write are received by others, (I mean does The Muse care about my opinion before he...you know). I figure it is none of my business anyway, it's not like I created them. I'm just the warehouse that receives and distributes orders.

I write for me, letting these words out will provide much needed relief to the restlessness inside. Overdue is this expression after years of repression. My in-tray is top-heavy and the burden is literally keeping me up at night! In fact, it in the best interest for public safety that I write, otherwise I fear becoming one of those people at the train station who just start talking at you while you are trying to mind your own business. You know of whom I speak! The types you tell people about at the dinner table, - they probably just regular people who didn't get to write.

It turns out the final piece to the puzzle was seeking permission from myself, for The Muse is actually a part of us all.

Ahem. *Places hand on heart* I solemnly swear to accept my compulsion to write and integrate it as my own. I promise to feed it daily with my wholehearted presence, like an addiction, or a child.

Everybody put on your wetsuits because mama needs to express!

Oh look the sun is rising, it’s 5.04am, time to clock off this graveyard shift and go to bed, before I wake up in 2 hours.

...So here you go my sleeping princess; I dub thee a writer. When you awaken it will be integrated into your being. My somnambulist self said so and she’s put it in writing, so now it is official.