3 A.M. hits and immediately the insomniatic tendencies take over. The urge to write for pages and pages until the letters swirl together just right to capture the way faint moonlight makes the comforter glow eerily, or to describe the ghostly flow of air entering and leaving the girl lying next to you, or to capture the way the click click click of the fan reminds you of a dance you've long forgotten. The incessant itch to scratch away at a paper until dawn, because eventually, eventually out of all the madness some form of beauty must come. The longing to capture a moment you'll forget, a moment no one else sees. They say this time is filled with silence, but it's in the silence that you can hear the rhythmic underbeat of the world breathing, the symphony of life most alive at it's sleeping. Lovers long for inspiration, authors of art seek love, the lonely race through tunnels, while the lost ride trains staring out at coffee-roasted skies. But you, you lie awake at 3 A.M. staring at a popcorn ceiling, listening to the breaths of the girl laying next to you, lost in another world, and you picture all the reasons to be awake, and all those that are. You figure out their reasons, all the excuses to avoid sleep, and this is when the question drifts lazily into your head, "Why're you?"
YOU ARE READING
Ink Stained Soul
PoetryAnecdotes and snapshots of life, sometimes mine sometimes based off of other people, events, songs, books, etc. I hope you enjoy it, but more than that, I hope you can connect with something bigger than all of us. After all, isn't that the point of...
