The Beginning of It

Two in the morning and my mind still forbade the body part to rest. I tried changing sides from facing the window across to staring at the table, all to no avail. I tossed like a swarming bee who struggles for enough space to soar.

Annoyed, I switched on the tube light. May be, I had had to watch over the sleeping room mates tonight too. Having considered all the options, I decided to look over the books. My heart wanted to pick up the curriculum text, the contents of which were still needed to be summarised in my notes. But the mind echoed, 'this is not the time'. I, over the time had come to believe, studying some syllabi content just after a nap was not fruitful enough.
Next to it lay another stack of three copies. Adolf Hitler's face shown on the cover of the topmost one. Oh, it was 'Mein Kampf', his autobiography. It certainly did not top my reading priorities, my mind prejudiced against it, after having read just the starting couplet.
An another one proclaimed, 'My Experiments with Truth', the autobiography of Mahatma Gandhi. Somewhere down the generations, the old soul had come to being called from Mahatma to an anti-nationalist person.
The eyes settled at last on the only thing, 'I could write something on to.' I am not aware of how's and whys of the question, but over some past months I fell more for notebooks then books. Perhaps because it is the notes, I can impose my expressions or impressions on. Anne Frank was supposedly right when she said that paper had more patience than people.
Too much wandering. I started rolling my mind over the distinct details of the recent incidents.
First the alphabets, then the words and the full sentences, the whole write up constructed.
The face shone a bit more now. The legs however wanted rest for the cartilage-prevailing parts. I at last thought it better to go for a maybe-peaceful sleep.

Enough thought! 
'Good' night, may be, I wished myself as I flipped back the pages of the world.