Not 4, but 445, but it’s a start.  

And not on laptop but phone.. Again, a start.  Typing on the phone is quieter, I don’t have to tiptoe like a cartoon burglar to the study, get the laptop only to make more noise when typing.  And I’m not sitting up straight, but on my back.  Slow start.  I’m fighting back against this hour.  My thinking and heart, self, wouldn’t let me go back to my dreams, which were weird last night, and this morning to be sure.  Can’t remember about what, but some family reunion or something, going to get breakfast and me so excited about breakfast I started singing, “We’re gonna get some breakfast, we’ gonna some breakfast…” Like an idiot.  Don’t know what it means.  Have to be careful not to accidentally erase what I’ve written, or typed, or pushed with my thumbs, which I’ve done before.  Hate writing like this, but it’s really not about the writing at this point, in this sitting (or laying), but about fighting back against 4am.  I re-situate on cushions, sniffle– fucking allergies.  Can’t wait for coffee…  Now I’m waking up, now 4AM is a bit on the defensive.  I live for this, when I’m surprised at myself, what I can do, like yesterday ordering that veggie sand’… And this isn’t some dimwitted ditsy 30 or however many day cleanse or trial or fashionable test of self… This is lifestyle change, a go at total Wellness, living healthier and more fully than I ever before have.  Tempted to check the word count but afraid I’ll accidentally erase this whole downpour.  And what the fuck difference does it make how much I’ve written?  Word count is quantity.  I’m haunting for quality.  OF life, of writing style, expression, pieces.. my voice and purpose, wanting to be anything but like them, the always loud and obnoxious in the halls full-timers.  I’ve already tallied some affirmation, win if you will.  How many I know are up right now, writing, forcing themselves to stay awake to write, meditate, collect thoughts?  And how symbolic, I realize, laying in this couch like I am propelling self at this small flat surface?– like a psych session, confessing, trying to get better, heal, improve– yes, improve.  My own therapist, or the words are my counselors, guiding me to something, certainly, I hope…  I don’t see myself as damaged at all, hurt or down, but trying to persist as the best ME I’ve ever been, or hoped to at any stage in my story.

Don’t know if I could go back to sleep even if I wanted to or if I put this phone down and tried, slowed my breathing and was really set on dormancy.  My thoughts aren’t everywhere at this hour as they are during the day, but contained, focused on me and my story, my battle against 4am and getting to the healthiest, most fit and Well Self I’ve ever tasted.  Hear a ticking somewhere down here.. Didn’t know we had a clock like that downstairs or anywhere in the studio.  Reminds me of time, how it refuses to stop and how 4AM is just a battle in a larger war.  One I know I’ll lose, but fight anyway.  Live and madly so, no interest in existing.  Ever. 5:02.. And I’ve definitely written.  Re-defined Self, or at least partially.  Should rest my eyes for a couple.  Collect a bit.  These allergies attack alongside this early hour.  No way I’m reaching 3,000 or even 300 words this sitting, or laying.  And that’s not the point.  My point, and victory in this dispute or clash like I wrote last night, is that I didn’t go back to sleep, I didn’t retreat.  This is a start, of a changing momentum.  There is no tide anymore to be considered, but the whole ocean.  And I’m soon to situate as the dominant vessel on it, and my ideas the expansive swarm of growth accompanying me.