At it again

It's trying to make a forceful return - my writer; it hijacks my sleep and intrudes my thoughts, calling me to the glow of the screen the clattering of keys. Like a drug fiend kept awake by the allure of the escape from a tormented reality - my writer tugs at me, calls me, and taunts me. It tells me "you won't get a moments rest if you don't get these thoughts out your head and onto the screen" - "don't allow the thoughts to slip through your mind like sand in an hour glass." So I write, to use the words from a young poet I recently heard whose name eludes me; every letter becomes a word, every word a sentence, every sentence a thought. Yes, it's declared a jihad on sleep and unfocused thought - it's fully equipped with sleeper cells. Alas, the battle rages on, we trade punches, it wins some I win some, and the balance is kept.