I'm sat here again, 12:45am, night after night its the same. hair pulled a hundred directions into a nest on the top of my head, my mug steaming with ideas and revelations
I find it so strange that the darkness brings so much clarity and light to the thousand ideas racing in my head. ironic, isn't it?
the day just brings distraction, a burden on my creativity, weighing me down. Until the sweet release of the moon allows for a few uninterrupted hours of peace.
Maybe this is the worlds way, of forcing creators to hide in the shadows, 'These daylight hours' they scream, 'You must conform, you are a slave in this well-oiled machine of a money-making society', and so, we all plod, day after day, hour after hour,
we follow each other like lost sheep, but the night is our shepherd,
You see, we are the same. We find our flock in the dead of night. We paint our wool a thousand colours, but by daybreak, no one's the wiser, because the shears shave us clean of our ambition.
and suddenly, we feel naked. exposed. ridiculed for having so much as a desire to create something organic in a processed planet, producing nothing but a poorly planned production of a plastic existence.
but still we pick up our pens like swords, and paint ourselves a haven