When it comes to writing, to finally tuning myself to the key I’ve set my life to, I am my own worst enemy. I lie there in bed at night, in the dark, and quietly construct the makings of great things: I write novels and poems, epic dramas and heartbreaking romances, prose and drama, scripts and haikus… Everything pours from my mind and into some great, cosmic font waiting to be blessed by being committed to the page. But as I continue to will my mind to shut down for the night, my frustration only multiplies because I am writing these words in my head and not on paper at all and try as I might to keep them there, near to the source from which they sprang, I cannot. And by morning, it is all gone and I am no more a writer than I was before full consciousness set in somewhere between birth and my first solid memory of actually living.
Does every writer go through this? Dealing with the absurdity of writer’s block only to try and escape it for a few hours in sleep, but to have the thoughts racing around your mind like some frantic muskrat on a mission? Jesus. It’s exhausting. I just want to go to sleep, to drift into the blissful unawares of nothingness for a while. Much as I love those rare lucid dreams, I love just seeing what my poor head can get up to when I get out of my own way.
And even now, I know the minute I step away from this particular ramble, my mind will once again spring into action because it won’t have the stage fright it has right now and once again I will be frustrated at not having the power to control my own inner-workings. These thoughts and stories and beautiful, perfectly constructed sentences will go to waste and I can only hope at this point that God is keeping some great transcript of my thoughts so that someday, if I am allowed into His kingdom, He will let me read over the things I thought so merrily at night and I will finally have the sense of satisfaction I only get a glimpse of here on earth, in the middle of the night, in my dark apartment somewhere between sleep and madness.