Through the pitch black of night, the neon green glow of the digital clock display atop my motel nightstand seems as bright as the noonday sun. It’s 2:13AM. Gimme a break. I’ve gotta be up in four hours. Of course he knows this, but doesn’t care. My burning eyes slowly glide toward the far corner of the beige stucco walled room. He’s staring back at me. I can see the smug glint of his pearly whites, and the ghostly haze of his eyes reflecting the moonlight peeking through the plastic blinds. His joy infuriates me.
“What are you talking about, ‘Why’?”
“Why won’t you leave me alone? Dude, you KNOW I have to get up to go to work in less than five hours!”
“I know, right? It’s just that we haven’t really spent any time together lately. You don’t invite me into your projects anymore, so I decided to just drop by for a visit.”
“I don’t wanna talk to you. I need sleep!”
“Pssh. Sleep is overrated. Trust me, you’ll get enough of that when you’re dead. C’mon man; It’s me! Your old pal. Remember how we used to stay up all night writin’ and beat-makin’? Good times.”
“Yeah, maybe for you. You don’t actually pay any taxes. You don’t have to work. Your only job is to goof off and reek havok! And for all that time spent with you, exactly what do I have to show for it?”
“Well…there was that one book we wrote.”
“Oh, what about the music we put together? Didn’t you just reach a new fan from Texas, yesterday?”
“Okay, that’s true but-”
“How about the short stories we pitch together while burning the midnight oil? You know this is the time we’re in the zone!”
In truth, I really don’t have any rebuttal to his claims. The proof is in the pudding.
“I’ve got another great idea cookin’ up. Just give me an hour and we’ll make magic!”
*Sigh* “Fine, what are we doing tonight?”
And so it goes. The dreaded curse of a creative is that he is forever shackled to insomnia.