It’s Been A Hard Days Night

Pain’s fire burns by the Caddo, my pen flares, writing hope through sleepless nights.

A Hard Day's Night, Scratched in Magnesium

The Caddo River mutters its secrets into the dark night pricked by the stars flickering overhead, its waters licking smooth stones under a slivered Ouachita moon. My feet are bare, trembling they sink into the damp clay of its bank. The cold a fleeting distraction from the fire in my nerves. Neuropathy claws at my legs, a thousand red-hot pins prickling from ankle to thigh, while fibromyalgia wraps my bones in a dull, relentless ache, like the weight of wet pine logs. It's 2 a.m., and I'm out here, dodging the bed that waits like a trap in my small house up the hill. Sleep should be a refuge, but it's a cliff's edge, promising pain that twists my gut tighter than a hickory knot.


It’s Been A Hard Days Night, and I've been working like a dog, not at some factory or field, but in my own skin, fighting to move through a day that feels like wading the Caddo in flood season. Every step's a negotiation — muscles screaming, nerves sparking like frayed wires. I reckon it's been a hard day's night, as that old Beatles tune hums in my head, its rhythm matching the pulse of pain that won't quit. By dusk, the Ouachita's granite ridges, glowing saffron under the sinking sun, should call me to rest. But rest is a liar. The bed, with its soft quilt stitched by my aunt in Broken Bow, feels like a betrayal, a place where my body turns traitor, amplifying every twitch into torment.


So I stall. I wander the yard, where fireflies blink like tiny lanterns over the red-dirt path that leads to the pines. I fumble for False Ember's Ease, swallowing its bitter promise under the Ouachita's starry canopy, hoping it'll dull the pins stabbing my feet or the ache sinking into my bones. For a spell, it softens the fire, a dim glow like embers fading on the Caddo's bank, but it's a liar too, its relief gone before the stars shift.
Sleep deprivation's a cruel friend, unraveling my thoughts until they tangle like fishing line. Emotions fray--grief for lost ease, anger at my body's rebellion, a hollow ache for something I can't name. By 2 a.m., my heart's a storm cloud, heavy with unshed rain, and the bed still looms, a shadow I can't outrun.


But there's a spark, a magnesium flare from my pen in the dark. My pen, gripped tight, scratches against the page, and the words burn bright, cutting through the fog of my pain. Writing's my saving grace, my "you" that The Beatles sang about, the one that makes me feel alright. Back inside, I slump at the kitchen table, a chipped mug of cold coffee beside me, the Ouachita's night breeze slipping through the screen. My notebook's open, its pages scarred with ink dripped, and my pen moves like a river carving a stone. I write of the Caddo's ripple, of the way moonlight fractures on its surface, each shard a story of survival. I write about the pain, not to tame it, but to name it — neuropathy's fire, fibromyalgia's weight, the dread that keeps me pacing till dawn.


The words come jagged, then smooth, like the river's flow over pebbles. Some are sharp, spitting out the frustration of a body that won't obey: "My nerves howl louder than a bobcat in the Ouachita's deep hollows." Others are softer, tracing the hope that flickers despite it all: "The pines stand tall, their roots clutching earth like I cling to this pen." Each sentence is a defiance, a refusal to let the pain win. The act of writing feels like striking flint, sparks flying in the dark, and for a moment, the ache recedes, pushed back by the heat of creation. My emotions, raw and tangled, find shape on the page, no longer a storm but a current, steady and true.


I think of the song, its promise that love — or something like it — can make the grind bearable. My love's this pen, this paper, this act of scorching the night with words. It's not a lover's arms, like in the song, but it holds me tight, tight, and the medication helps, yeah. The Ouachita's silence, broken only by an owl's call, wraps around me, and the Caddo's murmur echoes the rhythm of my scratching pen. I write of southeastern Oklahoma, and southwestern Arkansas, where the red dirt clings to my shoes like a memory of my grandfather's stories, of days fishing near Broken Bow when my body didn't betray me. I write of the present, where pain is a constant companion, but so is this fierce need to create, to let ink flow like the river outside.


Hours pass, and the sky pales, a soft gray creeping over the Ouachita's ridges. My eyes burn, heavy with the weight of too many sleepless nights, but the page is alive, 985 words spilling out like a spring-fed stream. The bed still waits, a quiet threat, but I've stolen something from the night. The pain hasn't vanished — neuropathy's fire still smolders, fibromyalgia's ache still presses — but writing has carved a space where I can breathe. I close the notebook, the pen hot in my hand, its magnesium glow fading but not gone. The Beatles' refrain hums low in my mind: "You know I feel alright." And for now, with the Caddo's song in my ears and the Ouachita's dawn breaking, I do.


The river keeps moving, tireless, and so do I. The pines stand as sentinels, their branches whispering of resilience, and my words, scratched in ink, hold the same stubborn hope. Tomorrow night, I'll face the bed again, the dread, the 2 a.m. wander. But I'll have this pen, this page, this fire that burns brighter than the pain. In the Ouachita's shadow, by the Caddo's flow, I write "and when I get home to you, I know the things that you do, will make me feel alright," and the words carry me home.


Written by — Noisy Wren, '25
For the Beatles Musical Extravaganza Week 3