The Universe is Indifferent

MAY 21 ENTRY: When do you find it easiest to write? Do you write first thing in the morning, late at night, or somewhere in between?

A nice, easy prompt for a change. Cheers to whoever sent in this prompt!

I am definitely a person who is more creative at night, or rather, late night, when there is no one to disturb you, no noises of tv or phones ringing. Everything is so quiet. It is very conducive to my musings.

In the depths of every heart, there is a tomb and a dungeon, though the lights, the music, and revelry above may cause us to forget their existence, and the buried ones, or prisoners whom they hide. But sometimes, and oftenest at midnight, those dark receptacles are flung wide open. In an hour like this, when the mind has a passive sensibility, but no active strength; when the imagination is a mirror, imparting vividness to all ideas, without the power of selecting or controlling them; then pray that your grieves may slumber, and the brotherhood of remorse not break their chain.-Nathaniel Hawthorne

A long but brilliant quote I found. Hawthorne was really something. It is not just the quietness of the night that I like, it is the fact that I will be alone, like an island in the ocean, just me and my thoughts. I remember when I started writing in my teenage years, there were days when I would lie down to go to sleep and lines of poetry would not let me reach the promised land. It was frustrating and exhilarating at the same time. My mind just doesn't switch off sometimes.

I have seen that the best things I have written were just before going to sleep or a little earlier. It's not just quality either, around 80% of my writing is done during that time.

Tranquil , I feel this word was coined especially for this time, when children sleep like little fairies, adults forget all their troubles in the comfort of their pillows, in dreamland, as I scribble on, travel to unchartered lands, meet the most amazing people, all through my pen. They are more real for that fleeting half an hour than people in this world, "the real world" can ever be, they speak to me in an alien tongue that I understand, no one knows how and as they try to leave, I try to capture them in the confines of a paper. But my hands are incapable means, my words hollow, they can never do justice to the people and yet, I try every day, hoping to get better, because the faintest ink is more lasting than a memory. I try again as I finally collapse into the arms of blissful sleep, with my notebook under my head and my pen in my right hand...