Lately, plots and ideas for my different stories kept rushing into my mind. Instead of closing my eyes to sleep, scenarios are playing endlessly.

This insomnia-like problem bothered me on my fourth night. I opened my eyes, stared at the ceiling— I really can't see the ceiling; all I can see was a pitch-black surrounding.

I motioned my blanket away from me, squatted on the bed and slouched. I growled and messed my already mussed up hair because of the river-like ideas infinitely flowing into my mind.

“Mind, please stop. Everything's disorganized, what do you want me to do?” I mumbled, asking my own wit, foolishly expecting to receive an answer.

I crawled to get down on the bed and lied on the floor for a moment. Afterwards, I rummage the things on top of my desk to look for my cigarettes. When I get a hold of something with stick-like structure which seems to be the one I'm looking for, I
undoubtedly grabbed it.

“Do you really want me to write?” I yelled my frustrations to nothingness— deaf and mute to answer my calls. What I grabbed wasn't a cigarette stick, but a pen.

I stand erect and marched towards the kitchen. I stumbled on...