What I Do in the Middle of the Night Instead of Sleeping

My sister calls my nephew “Nicholas Pickle-less” which rhymes out loud if not so much on the page, so it would be perfect for a children’s book. A book about Nicholas and how he liked his sandwiches pickle-less, mayonnaise and cheese were fine but those little green pickles just crossed the line. Wow cheesy. Okay but keep going keep going where does this story go so his mother called him Nicholas Pickle-Less but he called himself Captain Nick. He wore a red cape with yellow dots on a green circle. He only took it off to sleep, even though he thought he should be able to wear it in case there was an emergency in the middle of the night. He didn’t want to be slowed down having to take it off the bedpost and asking his mom for help putting it on. Superheroes such as Captain Nick should not have to put up with such nonsense. Which voice which voice I don’t know keep going with it whatever you have you are sitting here in the dark in the middle of the night writing. There is nothing else to worry about. Nothing outside to worry about.

                                                           All worry converges here.

Releases. Dissipates back into the universe as molecules of something all bullshit all of this is Shiite as my friend  would say not Shiite but shite and that time it didn’t correct it typing blind again thinking about too much too too much today. Starting to love myself again. No matter what others think do say whatever. I know who I am. I better love this bitch too. Nobody else is going to do it for me, and yes I do realize how that sounds now that I’ve typed it out but I am typing blind and I guess my filter is off and or not working or something I can’t type. I get ahead of myself. Maybe I am typing faster with one hand or something I am not sure. I have written about nothing real in so long. Only about writing.  Journal upon journal of writing about writing. That will do me no good unless I publish a whole bunch of real stuff and then the journals will only be interesting to people studying me or studying writing or worse yet, they will be interesting to no one. No one whatsoever. And my story will not matter.

And it will be as if I was never here.