There’s a subtle hum in my wrists , not painful, but a vibrating awareness, as if all the thoughts moving through my head are trying to escape through my fingertips, demanding to be written down even when there’s nothing particularly urgent to say, just the sheer PRESSURE of existence wanting a channel, and it reminds me of that never-ending bodega light across the street, always ON, always a point of unwavering glare in the periphery no matter how dark my room gets, how dark my thoughts get, a constant bright truth that sometimes feels like a blessing and sometimes a relentless, unblinking eye on everything, on all the big questions I keep in that worn notebook, the ones without neat answers, the ones that just SIT there, radiating their own kind of unanswered energy right back at me through the pages, and I guess this is just the way it goes, some nights, the mind refusing to settle, even when the body just wants to melt into the bed and forget it all for a few hours, even with the chamomile fighting a losing battle against the buzzing electricity of being alive.