It is two in the morning when it hits you – an idea so peerless that your mind is jolted awake, like a shot of hot espresso to your sleep-deprived system. You stumble into one of those rare moments fueled by purpose, and you scramble out of bed in the middle of the night looking for some way to pin your thoughts down before they flutter beyond your reach.
It is three in the morning when you find yourself trying to fit the idea into words, puzzled by your inability to express in precision the whirring in your thoughts. Up close, you see dents and rough edges on what was once a brilliant idea (you forget, ideas are rarely perfect, dear writer) and you try your best to smooth out the surface until it’s worn out from your meddling.
You won’t admit it, but you were half-expecting it to write itself, this inkling of an idea that possessed you at such an ungodly hour. But in your hands, the pen feels cold, and the paper before you, a vast expanse you can’t possibly tread.
At 4am, all you have to be proud of is a mess of words, feelings, and ink on paper, the spark from earlier doused by the heaviness of your lack of sleep. You have work in the morning, but you try not to think about it as you climb back into bed, the dying warmth of what could have been dissipating as you finally pull the sheets over your head.