My mind has too much sprinting around it, darting in and out of various doors into strange hallways and back again. At this point of the night, my mind is sporadic and untameable. I allow it to do as it pleases but I am also tired and my eyelids are heavy, soon my head will be too heavy for my neck and shall far hard onto the pillow. Yet I want to continue writing. I want to jot down the thoughts in my mind but can't seem to pin point one. They're too quick for my delayed movements. Midnight is a rather peculiar time for me, I don't know just yet how I feel about it. Sometimes I get urges to paint but know then that, that would mean I'd sacrifice sleep. Other times my mind is troubled with worries or possibilities or it is filled with words upon words upon words of sentences strung into a poetic form as though I am plucking the strings of guitar and each word is like a note that must be heard. It is also a time of the purest honesty which can beautiful or terribly frightening: the beauty lies in the unfiltered truths that slip my mind and the terror hides from the spilling of deep secrets inside my mind. It is at these wee hours where one could ask me anything and the words would just slip off my tongue with ease. So Goodnight, this is enough nonsense for now.
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