Sometimes all you can do is sketch forgotten faces in the morning light. Everything is perfect; the technique, shading, proportions--- and yet something doesn't feel right. There's no life, no soul. In a fit of anger, you begin furiously erasing, accidentally ripping a hole into the paper. You spent hours on those drawings, but you don't regret it.
Sometimes all you can do is listen to desperate music at three in the morning. You sit in the office in front of a bright screen with meaningless words. The lyrics cry out, grasping for meaning, and they tap something inside of you. A sob builds in your gut, but no tears come. It's not a sad song, just hopeless, and somehow that's worse.
Sometimes all you can do is listen to the wind rattling the window shutters and imagine that it's a terrible beast instead of a storm. It hisses and claws at your house, and an electric thrill fills you. Thunder is just the monster snarling in outrage. You once read a book about a caged tiger, helpless but furious, getting shot in the heart. Perhaps that's how this will end. Funny that you find more comfort in nightmares than the real world.
Sometimes all you can do is sit in your home, alone but never lonely, happy but not content, and breathe and think and breathe and dream and live. Sometimes the world outside the blinds ceases to exist until you live off of your own mind. And sometimes you prefer it this way.
Overly dramatic prose poem from my notebook. I know it could definitely do with improving, I'm just getting it out there since I have my notebook with me and figured I might as well transcribe stuff from it.