The Mind Of A Writer At Two In The Morning

Some nights I lay in bed and know I should be tired. Often I am, in fact, tired. Dreadfully so.

But then my mind starts thinking in complex possibilities and philosophies.

Like the beat of a drum it bounces from one to the next; riddles and rhymes and colours and characters burst into my mind’s eye full of zest and playful banter.

A simple trip to the bathroom does not now come without a certain fear of course; the fear that a series of words or flows of sounds or sentences will be lost – permanently. There are of course some places you cannot carry a pen and paper. Though perhaps this should change.

It is complex to describe this feeling I get. It is a sense of panic as I desperately play on loop what it is my mind has stumbled upon until I can at last clasp a pen and scribble down these revelations found within. The gift for doing so an overwhelming sense of relief. I can breathe again.

I have not always felt like this. I have not always been able to articulate such feelings or emotions with the intricacies of the written word. School may otherwise have worked out very differently.

I think it would be right for me to describe how these feelings once felt to have been just a mash of different colours and sounds, often as blindingly deafening as they were torturous and terrifying. I did not, at the time, understand their purpose.

Of course, I know I should sleep. I know I should ‘wind down’. But for years my purpose and passion was distant, mostly unknown. Now it is found, it is here, and this routine and normality I am told to embrace seems but a costly distraction.

All I want to do is write and ponder, the world is my wonder.

Greatness Via Passion.

 

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