Temperamental Artistic Temperament

It's four-thirty and I am neither asleep, nor doing anything even vaguely constructive with my wakefullness.

Damned creative block. I can usually apply my insomnia to write or design, yet tonight both fail me despairingly.

Currently I seem to be incessantly plagued by this fecund redundancy, which leaves me unable to convert this alternative, meandering energy into anything productive.

Irritation may motivate a dog to scratch, but no amount of such a fruitless activity will help rid itself of the flea. I function within such a metaphor now. I am writing here, this instant - yet ultimately my goal remains fleetingly tangible.

Words, words and more words. None of them shall impres upon you the fervent desire to share something of merit that strains and roils behind each worthless syllable.

If the eyes are a window to the soul, then the pen affords a glimpse of the imagination. Tonight, that view is of nothing but the thickest, most impenetrable fog. I detest it as the astronomer loathes the obstruction of his beloved galaxy; all pinpoints of miraculous, wondrous, inspiring light extinguished by the heavy curtain of oblivion.

"A very great part of the mischiefs that vex this world arises from words." - Edmund Burke. Could not have put it better myself. Particularly on this loquaciously barren night.

Normal people just bloody sleep!