Self Sanctioned Sabotage

I have spent too long delaying sharing my writing name of waiting to write what is really me. The problem with that is the fact that we as people are always changing and growing. Who is to say that I will love the same things next week that I have adored for the last 23 years of my life. One thing that has yet to relent is my love of the night.

My writing seems more real when done in the soft night light. When there is nothing I have to do and nowhere I am needed to be but in a state of rest I find that there is no sleep meant for me. I feel as if this is the time that my imagination comes to play. Similar to Peter Pan and Wendy, my inspiration finds that this is the best time to seek adventure. Instead of dreams taking me away I find that my own wide awake mind seems to fill me with stories. I try to scribble down all that I can, as to not forget any piece of what my muse whispers in my ears. I hear her better in the silence of the night as she hums each piece softly. The candle light makes the words dance in even more glorious way then what they would in the light of day. All of the words and ideas sneaking in as shadowed figures, more comforting than scary.

There is a phrase among writers, in truth I do not know where it comes from. "Write drunk, edit sober." I have found that my intoxication doesn't come from alcohol, but instead comes from the freedom of loneliness of the night. I enjoy drinking in the calmness of its darkness. There is no judgement from the night, no way to fail the stars.

When morning comes, life is loud once more. It is the sobering realities that make my inspiration seem immature rather thank playful. My escape and my fantasies seem more frivolous in the light of day. It is with the bright sun light that I see that my words that once danced and played seem stale and stiff. I feel that with one look from my now sobered eyes it all will crumble. That the once beautiful, mysterious, and illustrious muse is actually quite hideous, and that it guided me not to a well weaved story, but helped me create a mess of unwoven words. I am so worried of being proven a fool that I hide away every gift that this mysterious figure has given me. The fear that the sunlight will show the cracks and my mask is not enough to hide my face. But why must I bring out these beautiful into the light of day? Some things are not meant for the sun, maybe the moon and the stars are the only things that are meant to enjoy my things. They my only be beautiful at night, but at least they are still beautiful.

I fear sharing these things in the light of day where people judge ands scrutinize every detail. My worries make me keep these things locked away in a quiet dark place, so I can keep them beautiful in my mind. So no one sullies what I might hope might actually be beautiful. That's where my problem lies. I am being selfish, keeping these things to myself. I am sabotaging the art that I am creating by not sharing it. I am acting in fear. In fear that things are distorted at night. That I can not see thing clearly. So I keep things here at night, I keep it dark with soft lights so that maybe you can see things with my view.

So like my inspiration is not meant for the sun, maybe these stories are not meant for you. It does not mean that they are not beautiful. It does not mean I should not show them. So here is my record of what happened in the night. my Noctuary. Here I will share my muses words, the late night snacks, and my insomnia induced ideas. While your here I hope you can find something beautiful.