It is early in the morning night, strictly speaking, but may I say, it is late in the evening.
It is in the fullness of the night that my mind begins to wander to many places, revisiting old thoughts and forming new ones. It is when my beloved yet elusive muse whispers with her soft voice trilling in my ear.
It is as if the night, in all its mystery and beauty, is a prerequisite itself for inspiration.
My weary body, however, would not permit my mind to wander for too long. My eyes and then my thoughts would gradually blur, and in a blink of a moment, I would find myself asleep: revelations and insights washed unto the deepness of my unconscious, losing them indefinitely.
Losing thoughts or knowledge is just as painful as any loss. The loss, the pain—it is a longing for understanding what has been understood, for thinking what has been thought of. It is not fury nor anger. It neither is a wallowing nor sorrow. It is the fury of the mind, the angst, for not being able to immediately know what has been known; it is the wallowing of the soul; it is the sorrow of the rationale, and an emotion thus is most painful for a human.
For this reason, we must seek to compile and archive what we think of, daily. For if everyday we think of an idea that needs nourishing, but through the weakness of the body it dies, then it is lost, but not forever; however, it is still lost, and it might take time, that damned chariot, its wheels forever set in motion, for the idea to spring back into little life.
And we must relish this temporal jubilee wherein we are free to write down what we wish to write, or let alone think. For in the future, when power in its purest drives men, the truth will become lies which then become the truth; and this will result in the doubting of which is true, ad infinitum, and only the ones in power have the power to impose their unquestionable truths or not-truths.
Inasmuch as we want to rely on our capacious memory for thoughts and knowledge, it is inevitable that it will betray us, for our body, in which our mind springs forth, degenerates and dies. As much as paper rots and decays, however, it lives longer than we do.
It is early in the morning night, strictly speaking, but may I say, it is late in the evening.
It is in the fullness of the night that my mind begins to wander to many places, revisiting old thoughts and forming new ones. It is when my beloved yet elusive muse whispers with her soft voice trilling in my ear.
It is as if the night, in all its mystery and beauty, is a prerequisite itself for inspiration.
Amidst the fatigue mine eyes suffer, I strive to write, for only in the night I could only write, for I fear that the chariot would decapitate me from behind any moment under the sunlight.
