Over Excitement

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a- oh wait wait wait, who's that clacking on the keys? Damn it, why am I still awake? Watch me stir. Oh look at my stir of great awakening, sigh as I sleep not a wink not a slip. Even on a regular night I suffer from insomnia, so how do you think I cope with Christmas Eve? The excitement of all those unwrapped boxes, a tree full of anti-climaxes just waiting for their moment. But I am so tired tonight. I have done gig after gig this season, show after show after show and the world is a blur of card tricks and sleights. So many names forgotten in an instant, jumbled with the laughter of mushed up faces, their features twisted in astonishment. I decline from day to day. Each night I lie for longer and longer until sleep takes; when I wake my dreams are so much more lucid to me than my day. The world in which I slumber has become the reality, the reality bleeds into the fictional, a slur of space I all but inhabit. In the darkness I am alive, creative and creating, but when the day breaks with the egg shells I wake exhausted and depleted, the twelve hours ahead one long hold tone until the next naptime. I need to go home.