Sleepless Night, Restless Mind

It is 1:30 and though I have spent the last two hours attempting to fall to sleep, I have failed. It is on these nights that I surrender to my thoughts, climb out of bed, and pour myself a strong cup of coffee. It is also on these nights that I do my best writing. I do not know why I write. Maybe it focuses my mind, or even empties it of the thoughts that keep me up. Oh! These thoughts. My mind is like a movie reel in fast forward; from topic to topic is speeds on, taunting me with worries, memories, and hopes for the future. Tonight alone I feel as if I have gone through a lifetime of thoughts. 
Sleepless nights must be a blessing for an aspiring writer, like myself, who has been faced with serious writers-block for sometime. I hate not being able to write. It used to be that I could sit down at any point of the day, and simply write anything my heart desired. It flowed from me, as constant as a waterfall. As I have grown older, and my thoughts have become more complex, and my days more stressful, I have found that my mind has built a dam against my imagination. No longer can I pick up a pen and simply write a new masterpiece. No, now I must wait days, months even, until I have achieved the motivation and inspiration to write. These moments do not last forever, however. Sometimes they only last a few minutes, other times, if I'm lucky, an entire day. I enjoy these brief seconds of my life, when I can empty all my emotion and pent up thoughts into a single, powerful piece. It is, as they say, what I live for.
So tonight, I find that I am not irritated at the fact that I can not sleep, but instead greatful. In a few hours, I am sure I will regret this sleepless evening, as I struggle to stay awake at work, but in the end, it is worth it. To see a thousand words come together, in a random, but meaningful way, is to see all my expierences, emotions, and knowledge have a purpose. This purpose is to enlighten those who do not understand a writer's struggle against their own human mind, the limits it provides, and our attempts to overcome them. It is a constant war, with a beautiful outcome.
I do not believe myself to be a elite writer or to be ranked among the greats: Shakespeare, Poe, and Dickens. However, I do look upon their works with admiration, and long to be as powerful as they. So on this sleepless night, while my mind is free to pour its thoughts onto paper, I think of them. Maybe they are watching, and waiting; anticipating the point when another has mastered the art of harnessing the mind, and may join them. I pray, one day, it is me.