It's 11.25pm and I need to stop writing at 11.35pm.

I can hear the clock ticking really loudly. It's bellowing into my eardrums, I feel the sound of it spiralling to the top of my head. I don't know what it's counting down to.

I love it and hate it at the same time.

I've been in this position before. I've grown accustomed to the notion of aimless wandering, the idle feeling of being suspended right above the spot marked X but not knowing how to get my feet on it. It's a constant tugging onto my soul telling me that I'm not doing what I should be doing. It's a weird sensation. A feeling that feels both petty yet important, something that's unnecessary but has to be addressed.

It's only a matter of time before the fog starts to get a little thinner and I find my way back to a clearer state of mind. It probably means nothing, not yet at least. I'll keep it for those silent minutes before I go to bed, when the lights are all off and so is everyone else.

I'll piece them together when I have more minutes to spare.

10 minutes are up.