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I sat in the spotlight of my bedside lamp.

It had been a rather long time since I picked up a pen with the intention of writing.

It was 4:28 a.m. and the alarm would sound off in 32 minutes for about an hour. This hour was the most painful of the day. Lifeless. Yet full of relentless willpower to live I would coax my boyfriend out of his slumber and back into the world where we both existed together.

I flicked on the back porch light stepping into the night to enjoy a cigarette. With each breath I could taste the chemicals. I wanted to quit the filthy habit. I couldn't imagine such a void of object in my hand. What would I do with my new free time? I would only find more time to waste on a new toxic activity.

Writing was something to consider.

I would force people to read it.

I was like the Junebug, waiting on a big nudge to place me in the right directiondirection. Back on my feet. Inevitably I would exert all of my energy again only to be knocked back. I gave up trying to save all of the June bugs that would aimlessly fly and ricochet off objects. I could see a bit of me in each one.

The lackluster of creativity was trickling down from my crown to the soles of my feet. As I stood barefoot I could feel the Earth. My spark slithering through each pore of my feet into it's place of origin.