|Image taken from https://inspiremykids.com/|
Sometimes I stare at my computer screen at two in the morning. It's blank, much like the wall behind it and in front of me. It then occurs to me that I haven't written anything properly substantial in quite a few days.
At this point I start wondering if writing longhand would help; it's been too long since I've done that. But then again, I'm not sure if I would be able to translate my thoughts from pen to paper instead of from keypress to screen, and thence blog--typing something you've already written out feels weird, the way you felt when you copied carefully curated paragraphs from Wikipedia into your homework and hoped extremely earnestly your teacher wouldn't notice (you know, 'cause back in the sixth grade we were all honorable persons--'for Brutus is an honorable man, so are they all, all honorable men').
And since I'm not sure, I won't write longhand. I will keep staring at my screen, at two in the morning, mourning a little at my inability to form captivatingly coherent sentences. I will think more about things and people than about words. I will extrapolate my current state five or ten years into the future, wondering what it'll be like. Where will I be? Who will I be with? Will I find my answers? Of course, asking these questions to oneself right now would be--to say the least--futile, but at two in the morning, futility is not something I am immoderately concerned about.
Two in the morning is supposed to be a time for adventure, and that adventure could also be inside your own head. Or maybe you walk out onto the beach in the middle of the night, trying to spot waves. Maybe you make a sandcastle in the dark, and then feel the sand falling through your toes because you stuck your foot in it by mistake. Maybe you sit on the lone (pedophilic) swing and listen to songs of the night--chirping crickets and crackling incandescent bulbs--and sometimes John Mayer. Then you probably watch a movie and walk home with your friend, shielding each other from the cold (quite ineffectively, because cold tends to leak through things, sometimes even your skin), and trying to hit the high notes from Mozart's Lacrimosa (and failing miserably, but not giving a flying rat's arse).
Then, at two in the morning, you go back to your room, the one with the orange curtains, curse yourself for forgetting to shut your laptop down, and write all about what two in the morning feels like.