A weary sigh. A balled fist over heavy eyes. White, blank light pouring into my eyes as I stare at the screen. The screen that needs to be more than it is.

As I sit in the chair, wondering why I’m actively avoiding sleep as the sun threatens to lay its routine siege on the cold night sky, I can’t help but laugh. This is the fifth night this week that my sleep deprivation is only getting worse.

After a relaxing night playing online with brothers and friends, midnight comes and goes. “Alright, time for bed,” I lie. They all voice their agreement. After all, we’re responsible adults. We don’t have fun fooling around through the unholy hours in the morning. But neither do I sleep.

It would be so simple to write blog posts and fiction during the day. It must be. But my schedule is so crammed, it would take conscious effort to squeeze in that writing time. Time I’ve been spending frantically, and often without success, to curb back my weariness with a power nap. A vicious cycle, for the only free time I truly have is the only part of the day I could really enjoy myself, and my personal responsibilities dictate that realistically, I should be spending that time more wisely.

And yet here I am. I’ve done this every night the past few days. I successfully trudged through that day. What’s the harm in doing it again?

I’ve been spending these last few weeks anticipating a move. A desperate change of pace. Finishing the semester and having time to truly dedicate to writing. My inner conscious says “I’ll force a daily two thousand word minimum over the summer!” But I don’t really know where my life will be then. What if it gets even harder to write?

I’m at an impasse, it seems. I need a good night’s rest, but there isn’t enough time in a day to accomplish that and all the things I’ve laid out for myself. This brief, two week hiatus on my next novelette is soon to hit it’s fifth week.

“Do I need a break?” I argue. Perhaps that’s the answer. The only other time I took a break on this blog, it did me wonders. I felt invigorated. That break lasted ten days, and it started in grievance, when I had not the presence of mind to write. How could I personally justify taking another one?

“Nobody reads your crap anyway,” an internal voice replies. “Taking a break isn’t going to affect a single person beyond yourself. Just let yourself breathe.” A pretty harsh way to argue this to myself, but it is logic I can’t refuse.

A moment of silence as I move my hands from the keyboard to my face once again, reading over the last paragraphs. This isn’t even a story. Not really. This is a rant; berating myself for falling into this cycle of perpetual weariness seasoned with a lack of inspiration.

But, there is hope. Being able to force myself to write past two in the morning even when I’m immensely tired is a relatively recent development. Days like these are encouraging. If I can write in this state–even this sorry excuse for a fiction piece–then I can forge a career out of it. Right now, this is a hobby.

But one day I’ll be out of school for good. And the world shall know my name. Sooner or later.