When the clock strikes twelve: An ode to the early hours

Words fragmented across the midnight hours.

Echoes of premature ideas whispered into the slumbering ether.

Thoughts that plague the tortured artist, always when one’s head finally caresses the pillow. Daylight’s fleeting prose floods the mind within the secret hours. The very hours that pass with a heavy resonance.

Essays, novels, poetry — come together bit by bit, like faeries passing notes throughout ancient corridors.

The darkest moments of the night have long played host to some of the world’s most poignant and powerful art. A world beyond the words.

Thoughts whirring faster than one can scribble incoherent sentences before the words disappear once more. Catching them like fireflies in jars — an almost impossible feat.

Sweet nothings etched from the pen, rife with gossip and prescribed like their life depended on it. Candle wax bleeding beside the bedside.

The curiosity that awakens like a hunger in the gut, waiting patiently to materialise before tired eyes.

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