This is happening much too often now, this dissonance between thoughts and words. There is no earthly reason to be melancholy, not one that you can easily lay a finger on. This isn't a night for your words, you tell yourself, and prepare to bury your nose in a book about a Swedish immigrant in the US- a book that you picked up because it was about the only bit of non-fiction you found in a library that overflows with technical books (when it chooses to overflow). You're spoilt for choice- your shelves at home brim over with good, intriguing reading- but perverse that your mind is, it will pick the one you are least curious about- just because you took the trouble to carry it home and have had it three weeks without bothering to open it.
The sleep that you long for is fraught with nightmares; instead of a reluctance to wake up, you're only too ready to jump out of bed next morning. How unnatural. But it's only temporary- these phases are all too familiar, when you wake up thrice every night, wondering what really triggered those unrealistic flights of imagination, if you can call it that, those dreams in the colours of bleak winters, as devoid of pleasant fancies as a sere strip of land in a season of drought.
No more words, rein your thoughts in. The power is gone, thanks to the rain you were craving for, and is the very reason why you first started writing this night. The battery is low and will die out soon- and the thoughts will begin their mad rush in your head all over again. Hush them, like the flame of the candle that went out peacefully, painlessly, in that strong gust of wind.
The curtains are still and the night is quiet. When will the wind blow hither?