from a journal

04:06. Up. Laying down still, do not exactly up. Not at the computer, the writing station I set for Self last night. At counter. Nor am I sipping the coffee I made for myself. All I have to do is take one sip. Just one. Then I know I’ll be up writing for the next two hours at least. But I need more sleep. More rest. I saw this hour is god, but god is hard, harsh, or loving me right now. Or maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s…. me. Maybe I need go to bed earlier. Much earlier. A jolting break from plan. At least I’m doing this, flimsy an effort as it stands, or lays. I am going back to bed — I am still in bed — needing more rest. Another long day of travel and talking, catching and taking with me with the writing whatever I can from San Francisco. Should be there, focused on the field and what I’m doing in the field, and I am but maybe too much. Maybe I’m doing my job too much. Is that possible? Maybe I’m living too much and not being a writer as I should. I should go sip that coffee. I should stay up, do what no one else does at this hour. Do this, be an actual writer when there is no life or sound around you. The only thing I can hear right now is the light airy hum of the Xmas balloon figures outside, Santa and the Stormtrooper. No fridge in the kitchen or movement from wife or kids. Just that, and this — thumbs on an iPhone screen.

What else can I Note before surrendering to this hour, god, and going back to bed. I’m in…