Written at 12:30am (a draft)
And so it is
The music loud
We step up, step up
Deflated and thin
Our smiles spin
With the world around
The lights blur
We’re moving fast
But only go
There is something very reflective about the wee hours of the morning. Most of your side of the world is asleep, the streets are quiet. The peace sinks into your bones and the ideas start too bubble to the surface.
Some days it’s really hard to get out of bed. This morning, I lay here looking up at the horrible 1970s stipple ceiling, smothered by the weight of the world. My heart is tight and fear hangs over the bed like a Harry Potter dementor. All the happiness is draining, and if I stay long enough, the fear will turn into numbness. Which seemed like a better feeling. With too many late nights, I hadn’t the energy to resist.
Fortunately, because of incredibly supportive friends, I was dragged out of bed by the afternoon and thrown into the sunlight. Light, fresh air, and exercise. It isn’t much, but enough for me to break the surface and come up for air.
There is a great deal of sadness in poetry. There are millions of verse written about loss, heartbreak, teenage hormones, or death. Shakespeare, Sylvia Plath, Walt Whitman, W. H. Auden, Emily Dickinson, all of them have known enough sadness to write poetry that is both beautiful, and utterly depressing.
It’s unclear whether the creativity itself contributes to the mental illness, or if extreme creativity is the single ray of light in the storm – the karma for the rest of the shit we have to put up with.