'8 After Midnight. . .

I am up again, 8 after midnight, waiting for the sleep to kick in. Once that happens, I can take out my contacts and wash my tired face, moisturize my skin and crawl back into bed where my beautiful sleeping man is. Sorry for being a bit detailistic. Actually, scratch that, I am happy to be very in love with him, after all, he is my husband, and, we are newlyweds . . .
Anyway. I am wrapped in a fleece blanket that I bought in Moscow a couple of years ago. I remember taking this thing with me outside when I studied in the cold to stay awake - Coffee in one hand, a big book in the other - Those were the days. Granted, I wouldn't exchange these days for anything, but when I am up this late, I can only hearken back to the times when I would be studying and trying to stay awake so that I could finish a reading assignment due the next morning. Or, those times when I would be frantically trying to jot down every word (or was it my earphones?)ringing in my brain for my thesis - usually at the most cruel times of night when I only had the light of my computer screen to guide me. Oh yes, and the morning after that was really grand, looking at what craziness I had written. The muse has been known to fly away me often in the night, leaving me helpless in the quest for words, for brilliance, for masterpiece.
Its still there though, this fighting desire to write and to be heard, even if the words don't really mean much, or anything at all. The inside is screaming to be heard, will someone listen?
(Does it seem strange to speak of your soul/heart/spirit that way, as if it was another part of you? I don't think so. I command my heart to obey me, and yet it still begs another way at times. I strive against my own stubborn spirit and yet it still kicks the walls for freedom.
And to try to explain this tangent, it seems it took a detour and ended up in an exhausted fit of passion. And now, I am going to go find some sleep.