The Writing

So it's 1:30 in the morning (at night really), and i sit here writing. It seems odd to do so, considering I'm not really in the position to do so, but i find my writing is more free and fluid at night. Additionally, my thinking tends to be somewhat straighter, when not inverted by the hindrance of distraction and emotion.

Somehow, on this particular night, as i lay on my bed, I feel a bit freer, a bit of relief, of self-confidence slowly leaking its way into my mind. Its a good feeling I have to admit. It's a very easy-going pace that my mind seems to tread at...just slowly making its way from one thought to the next.

Quite frankly, it's hard to obtain, and even harder to explain, especially for me. Someone who seems to have the most pessimistic outlook on life, now experiencing what he believes is a euphoria. And words fail me here. Its not that I do not know how i feel, its that for too long I've focused on everything that i felt was wrong with my life, that this feeling seems odd, and all too unfamiliar.

Words that used to sprinkle my posts, and daunt my mind, no longer fit the criteria, and I'm left to feel a bit...out of place. My writing is hyperbolized, there is no doubt in my mind about that. I can take the simplest situations, emotions, objects and seem to create an endless flow of words to accompany them. Is it a virtue or vice? I feel the way I've used it serves to be a vice. I've used this to portray my anger, my resent, my malicious nature, and in doing so, I created a demeaning image for myself and the things and people that surround me.

And to what extent? Why not write of good aspects? of a wonderful family? of amazing friends? of the luck I've had to be able to live this life? So I continue to lay here, 1:45 now, writing. Just writing whatever comes to mind. And it feels good. To write. Again.

To write of a positive, a good feeling, and a serene mind. It seems surreal, and yet i want it to last forever. This feeling. And to what would I accredit this sudden content...i honestly do not know.

It seems to be the muse to my recent impediment. The inspiration I was waiting to obtain. And it has come to me now. At this hour, and I could not help myself. For writing in itself brings me joy. To write and read what i wrote, in amazement to the fact that i wrote it. It seems unbelievable. And to further flatter myself, I would say that sometimes, I cannot believe what I've written. Sometimes I can't believe the emotion I may provoke, or as a whole, the subject I have written upon.

They're all just feelings. emotions, nothing more than a hormonal imbalance or a psychological occurrence, and yet I may derive words from it. Derive words from nothing and turn it into something. Turn it into whatever i may like. Turn it into something positive or something negative. Its all in my words. And it seems so empowering to know that. It seems so unreal to know that. It seems so impossible to know that.

I write because I love to write. I love to write because...

And now i try and conclude this thing as best as i know how. I try to shut the gates that allowed my mind to flow so smoothly, and once again be unsure of the next time such inspiration comes to me again. Such uncertainty as to when i may find my muse again, as to when i may write again. And yet, I am willing to stop.

Note: Hey thanks for reading, I realize I haven't written in a while, and would like to thank my readers for keeping up with what I have so far. It means a lot to me, as stated in previous posts. Additionally, feel free to comment, I'm open to new ideas and thoughts, whether good or bad, they both help me become a better person, and write better. As for past comments that any of you may have written, please do read them, for i try to answer them (usually the long ones).

It is 2:00 now. and life seems to pass slowly.
good night.