Lightning and Fog

Have you ever had a time staying awake at the keyboard?
Not that it has ever happened to me.
I write, but I should have slept more the night before.

Sleep. So good. But trying to stay awake. Not so. First the fog, then—a cold-sweating wave of torture. Worse than the pangs of death remembered of past incarnations. O, give in. I give up. Take me out of this condition of schism. I try to stay alert—forcing thoughts of consciousness, of reason. Rationale. Objective observation. Simple math or alphabet. But it does not hold. Milliseconds seem like minutes, and minutes—hours, while lifetimes of strangers pass through the visions dancing. Advancing. Retreating. Edicts and off-hand compliments. Criticism of each unexpected appearance—saints applaud and demons mock this stream of unconscious flocking. Though grand insight and dull devotion intermingle in this distortion of space and time, a wealth of story, intrigue, inspiration unfold in silent succession. Plot and character pours forth from the final place of muse reflection. Song-writers, poets and mystery writers take weapon and battle to death for this. But death stops no pain, and not is retained. Memory gives way to a starry voyage. A river of light. The cave of echoes mocking. The fog is closing. Soft. In peace. And Snap! A crack of lightning. Bolt awake. No going back. And forth—the raging storm of peace. Succumbs to apple pie, the crumbs of hope and holy stones complete. It's all a dream somewhere. The fog and shocking truth that all is of a plan. Harmonic in its light. A stab now right to soul. So lonely in the snow. Keeps calling. All in the last seven seconds. Calling me awake. Takes a gentle rocking, despite a desperate attempt at return. But no. It’s not to be. Eyes clamp and chin drops. Hand to key repeating Vs, unending. Tapped the place of ancient passage. Slipping. Slipping. Sleep—so good. Damn the keeper of bad dreams.