The Itch

Where do you even begin on a night like this?

Flames are burning. There is fire in these fingertips.
You can put it to bed but you'll scratch 'til you bleed. Wake up itching (skin picking, clock ticking) for a day that just can't wait. Why so impatient, morning? What are you trying to prove? That yesterday wasn't good enough? That I am not good enough? Tomorrow will come as it will, but tonight I will burn. Each burn an itch, and each itch a memory.

Like maybe the Maybes, where it all began. Maybe the stranger who shook my hand. Or maybe the blonde boy, kind and shy. Or I'll remember how you encouraged me, then hung me out to dry. I remember a bruise and a faded scar. I remember a friend who was her own war. Remember the pages left to read, left to write. Remember the way we can laugh while we fight. (This silly rhyming game could go on all night.)

But back to the itch. Doctors call it eczema, I call it insanity. Or sometimes my muse. Regardless, I itch 'til I scratch and scratch 'til I bleed and bleed 'til I wake and wake and wake. There's something funny about insomnia - you feel like you should be getting something done, but are completely incapable of thinking straight enough to carry out even the most mundane task. I'm tired all day, every day. I say stupid things. I do stupid things. I feel plain old stupid. Even as I type this I know I've switched styles about three different times already. Normally this would bother me, but tonight I don't seem to care...

Thus, the paradox:
The more I crave perfection, the further I slide into mediocrity
The more I accomplish, the less successful I feel
The more I get finished, the more guilty I feel about not finishing more
The more I learn, the less I seem to know

How can this be? Is this how life is, how it's going to be from now on? Am I growing up or just growing tired? I would love to go to sleep and not wake up disappointed.