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It’s like 3:30 and I’m still awake. More like too tired to turn the computer off and go to sleep. The moody music is playing in the background and I’m comfortably propped up in my bed staring at the screen. As if it were a magic mirror, I sit, stare, and wait for it to reflect some glint of eureka, some blink of promise, some flash of hope.
Genius always came late in the night. At least when I was younger. When I was younger, I thought my words could or would one day change the world. My words were ingenious and deep and flowed freely. My words were powerful, evoked emotion. My words flooded pages with ink late in the night. The feverish tapping of keys they inspired would triumph over deep slumber.
But now I sit and stare and ponder. As it grows later, could I grow younger? Can I turn back the clock as it marches forward? Or could I at least get back that lust and zeal I used to have for life, for words? When can I stop being so cynical? Can I possibly exhaust myself to the point of creativity? Will the deprivation permit me to dream again? Or must I just be?
