The streets of town were paved with stars

Remember me as a time of day

My brain is exploding with things I cannot say. It's pulsing and twisting, and if I could see it, it would be flashing like a Christmas tree. Appropriate for this time of year. Ideas need to be put to paper, fleshed out, but I feel like I can't keep up, and it'll fade in the light of day. I will wither away and this will mean nothing. At least, that's what the cynical voice keeps trying to say. But I refuse to accept that.

I'm starting to develop ambition for this course I never plotted.

I'll write you a universe, complete with starry night skies in dark blue hues; summer heat and thunderstorms; or ice on all the roads. There is beauty, and angst, and lust, and love, and loss. There is life to be had in fiction - more complete, more fulfilling, more unique, and perfect. Wrapped in imagery, dappled in poetic license, breathing ink and punctuation. Thousands of possibilities, so many ideas swirling and building and fading in and out like a hazy radio signal.

Who knows, maybe one day it'll matter. Maybe one day it'll all make sense. But that doesn't matter. Just this. The night, the cold, the caffeine, the thought of having to go to work in 6 hours when all you want to do is stay awake all through the night bathing in this state of mind. It's all that matters. These brief flashes of feeling alive; when it is perfect, my mind is perfect, my detactment, my anxiety, my lack of normality - it is all perfect, it is all necessary, it all fits. Dysfunctional, sure. Impractical, hell yes. But feeling completely and utterly alive.

Music: A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square - Nat King Cole
Mood: Still creative