It’s counting down to midnight. There’s a storm brewing outside and a candle burning in my midst. My stomach is already sated from dinner; my thought-train has already been overworked for the day. The shadows are everywhere and they flicker as the wind blows the flame. The windows are open and the night is cool. The only sounds to be heard are the drops of the rain on leaves, water dripping off the roof unto plastic below, night insects giving their serenade and the distant humming of a generator. If I try, I can also discern the scratching of my pen and the alternating inhalations and exhalations of my breathing.
Physically, it’s cozy, but mentally my mind has lost that state of homeostasis. It worsens when someone awakens and comes shuffling into the room. The careless sounds are deafening and the banging of the cupboard door draws my attention. He burps and bumps my chair, then returns to the darkness of his room. It’s silent again. My mind continues spinning, and I stop writing.