I'm stuck in the middle, between what is and what might be

I do my best work creatively in the 3-4AM range, but I also end up weird and crazy because of it. This is the inherent conundrum in my artistic endeavors, and I think explains alot to my addled brain about why artists in general are tortured. They need something wrong with them in order to facilitate the existence of their work. Show me an artist who is not flawed, or broken in some way, or without faults, and I will show you a poseur.

I'm sorry, I forgot where I was going with this. I still can't sleep. And while I know I will regret this tomorrow when I attempt to awaken, I am still unable to force myself to sleep. And its not even as if I'm doing anything important. I am waiting for inspiration to hit me for my unfinished story, or for another one to begin. I am waiting for a lightning storm to knock out the power so I can sit in the complete silence that only comes in the abscence of humanity and all its trappings and bring clarity to my mistreated head. I am waiting for something to go right.

Still waiting.

Nope, didn't think so.

Still awake at the peak of exhaustion, nerves frazzled and raw from dealing with rampant stupidity on a daily basis and from answering questions that have no real answers, and full of piss and vinegar and extract of whiskey, I let all off the hook with one simple statement: "I'm ok." And truly, I am, nothing affects me nearly as much as it seems, but then again, when something truly DOES affect me, I don't let on. I keep it bottled up like nitroglycerine in the dark corner of my mind that doesn't allow light to escape, much less thought or feeling, until it expands and eventually explodes in bursts of creativity, or ambiguous rantings, or all-out stress anxiety attacks. I haven't had a full-on meltdown for awhile now, and I have been quite grateful for that. Work and play have not caused as much stress or anger, but lately its been increasing exponentially almost every day. Hypocrisy, shortsightedness, idiocy, rampant and blatant contempt: it's all been there, and more. All directed at yours truly, through no fault or deservingness of my own, only due to the fact that I happen to be the nearest target, and I make such a lovely target. Fire away boys, he can take it. Well, mister, I have two words for you: "Fuck" and "Off".

I'm hoping this wears off soon. I feel like I should be happier than I am, but I never seem to be. I am full of promises and regrets and indifference, but I want to at least feel something other than ennui and disappointment for once. "There's no consolation prize; there's no prize for consolation." Whatever. None of this makes any sense to me right now. I'm sure I'll delete this in the morning (afternoon; whenever I wake up). I just wish I knew what to do. I never do. Having direction would be nice for once, other than "vaguely downwards."