Unholy Storms At 3:47a.m.

The quiet of night has knocked sleep out of me. Im wide awake after devouring 334 pages of a book I am too tired to recall but not enough to close my eyes. Pints of chamomile tea haven't helped, and also I suspect a lack of alcohol because yesterday I was too bloated to drink so I resisted the usual indulgence. Sobriety is lethal for me, it spins too many cogs in my mind and allows uncomfortable pauses for thought.
So what is pressing into my ribs at such a wretched hour? What son of a bitch subject pisses me off before a bird has even stirred? A few. As always.
Fame for one and how cheap its got these days. Used to be only a gift, talent, call it whatever which propelled one into the nations living rooms, inspiring awe into the audiences. Sport, music, acting, painting, writing, if you were good at it and rose above the herd then halls of fame rightly beckoned.
Today its a different deal. In this cyber age where every nut has the means to broadcast through the internet, anything can earn celebrity status: swearing, spitting, suicide attempts, screwing, eating dog shit, its all legitimate art baby. Mass media has reduced the shining star of forgotten decades to the glint of a marble left in the sun.
Fame means nothing anymore, even less than nothing because any dolt can get it. Look at reality television and soft core porn magazines aimed at teenagers for proof. Empty headed wannabes without a single shred of difference (or dignity) between them. The new crew are the last crew and the next crew after these. Same songs, same poses, a gruesome bottleneck jamming stage doors.
I could get hard assed drunk right now and film myself naked on Youtube reciting crude poetry while spewing bile and grab myself a few headlines. It really is that simple.
Where the hell have all the unique guys got to? Bars used to be full of them.
Another subject to keep me from the throne of sleep is mortality. Im more fearful of dying at 3am than in the afternoon when the sun is in the sky. Death always feels closer during the dawn hours, like a mere hic-up could toss me into the grave. Tiny pangs become major life threatening drama, at times I can almost feel Death's skeletal hand brush my cheeks.
I lie in bed petrified, convinced doom is upon me. Of course when im drunk the problem doesn't rear its morbid face, and I gladly fall into the arms of sleep but sober with full attention to wits I look for the reaper under my pillow. Darkness must of course contribute to my irrational fear, and silence also will feed a restless mind but I also believe the early morning hours to be favorable with the Hooded One. Surely more souls are harvested at this time than any other? its like a done deal before the dawn. Reap spirits of the slumbering before they have their wits about them.
Executions should always be done in the early mornings, as bodies tend to give up life easier than at tea time.
Its a different kind of trip lying in bed believing every breath is your last but this always happens when I awake too early. My eyes roam the walls as morning light slowly bring them to life, whilst I search for last words and prayers beneath the blankets. On few occasions I have even begun planning funeral hymns, so convinced was I that as I swung my leg out of bed it would surely hit a coffin that had mysteriously appeared next to the bed. Of course there never is a coffin there and the hymns are never played but its a better shock than caffiene will ever be.
Sobriety is another kerb I stub my toe on when I come around, especially if Ive had a rare drink free evening. Its nice not having the rust of alcohol linger from a tasty session, and the spring in ones step from having a lighter stomach can be exremely liberating but I could never dedicate my life to abstinence. A few sober days along the way is all fine and well but its hard work for a devout tornado of frustration like myself. Days are long without beer and after 2 or 3 days im raring to go again, raging from sobriety's grip like a hunters bullet thirsty for blood.
I turn my head toward the bedside clock and wonder of a life without my sauce. Seconds click from 5 to 10, which is exactly how long it takes to empty the idea out of my head.