I wasn’t much for sleep. In fact I write this morsel close to 2am in the morning. When I was just 6, I would lay in bed— and if I had another set of legs— I’d be running in circles like a dog. I wander through the night looking for something inspiring, exciting, something that would trigger a spark to imagination… I can’t seem to find that during the day, just too many distractions under the sun. But that moon waning, that soft autumn breeze. Maybe its the pajamas or shorts. Maybe I should be perched on a gargoyle, just looking for some action. My glasses would only get in the way of the mask. Really, what’s with the night? I just read a FBKuote:

“Don’t lose hope. When the sun goes down, the stars come out”.

A path that picks up each night— as I wonder— and wander through the head of creative… monsters! What would Da Vinci do in front of “this” blank canvas of mine? How many pages did Hemingway discard before the words just spilled onto his notebook? How much chatter did Kafka’s typewriter make?— first in his head—manuscript after manuscript.

The night is so intoxicating. No wonder I wake with a stupor and am no good friend to a cup of coffee. Tomorrow let me smile down to the face my barista makes within the froth. At least someone can be creative so early in the morning. Thanks, Tammy.