The worker at midnight

He glares into his PC monitor, eyes red and tired. He gives his all and fights through the lethargy that is pulling his last reserves of the imagination from him. He needs to do this, for a better future...because it's who he is. It's tough and sometimes the ideas are distantly extinct like a fossils slowly unearthing deep inside the writers mind. He views things as a people watcher, logging and always observing. He is silently nosey and at the same time respectful, he loses his ego to become a transport sponge so to carry his characters to his novel, or story. He writes in his blog questioning if anyone really cars or reads his work. It's good for him, self therapy. The journal keeps him venting and learning, past the iron gates of dimness he searches for a brighter tomorrow and survives outside of time and people. He walks among them but never really feels with them. Why is this? He is lazy but hard working. Another cup of tea passes his dry lips and tastes like luxury, caffeine fuels his journey into the midnight hour. His fingers begin to ache as he types what shoots through his mind, thoughts from anywhere speeding past like a runaway train. It's easier to write in the dark.
I can pluck the concepts more easily now, I check the time on the bottom right hand corner of my monitor.
it's 12:00.

THE WRITERS MIND

My mind never ceases to rest. I can feel it working out new maps of contorted circumstances when I am busy doing other things. Sometimes I feel like my mind's not my own, like it lives for it's self. I hear many different voices in my head, like new characters my mind will create and a plot for the taking. I will scribble sprightly with each letter constantly aching my fingers until I receive writers cramp. I keep myself busy. A writer is born, with a creative gift, an artist who needs to work hard at his craft as if fighting to breath. There is no supplement for hard work. At times when I feel like not writing I know that I can write in my blog, that way I'm still writing. It's like my life journal, I enjoy blogging. I have to constantly jot notes down in my phone wherever I go, and those who know me well can tell I'm been quiet because I'm working. As a boy I was to undeveloped as to notice that my crazy thoughts were just my imagination growing with me. They were growing pains. Just like a born sprinter will gradually exceed his or her peers in P.E, my thought process began to manifest leaving my immature nature behind. I think this is the reason I gave an impression of being mad at school. Now, as a young man (nearly 30) I have the responsibility to control my mind to a degree, after all I am I. It's all about the man, or woman in the mirror and really knowing who you are. Self knowledge. It's just the beginning for me, like the evolution of the planet in the lunar cosmos.

The only question I have is...who is writing this now?