Davids Civlis

A secret the story holds

The little black notebook. The dark gold light from streetlamps floods the night stopped only by the thinning tree leaves, then drips down on the street smothered by shadows. It is 3 am, and I still cannot get any sleep. I get up and walk across the room, sitting down by the table. Vague headache, sore muscles and irritated eyes have now passed through the body, and it almost feels like it creeps in my spirit. Yet my mind is racing from past regrets to future doubts and all in between, my heart beating with a force that hurts. I slide my hand over the tabletop were paper heaps reminding me of overdue deadlines and half-done projects ley. My self-illusion of organised chaos justifying this madness. Fingertips touch the cover of a book, turning my full attention to the latest obsession. I have pushed all my responsibilities aside to immerse myself in the books cryptic story and unveil its secret.