Tired

I am tired,

but I don’t want to sleep—

not now,

not when the day still hums with the soft throb of possibility,

not when I have just started to feel the rhythm of progress,

not when my hands have finally begun moving with purpose,

not when ideas flicker at the edges of my thoughts like moths to a dim but steady flame,

because sleep, while gentle, while needed, is a thief in disguise—

it steals hours I cannot spare,

rearranges momentum,

blurs the edges of my intention,

and though my limbs beg for stillness

and my eyes burn with the weight of surrender,

I resist,

I fight,

I drag my soul forward even as my body falls behind,

and though coffee whispers its temporary promise,

I know its betrayal too well—

the surge followed by the sink,

the crash that leaves me worse than before,

so I weigh the value of this moment against the lure of rest,

I stand at the doorway between determination and surrender,

hearing the ticking clock mock me,

knowing that if I let go now, even for a moment,

the fragile scaffolding of my focus may collapse,

the drive I summoned from so deep within may dissolve into the fog of slumber,

and all I’ve fought to gather in this hour—

the flow,

the fire,

the fragile coherence—

may slip away, ungraspable, like smoke through fingers,

and still,

I sit,

I type,

I think,

aching but awake,

still refusing to close my eyes.