I wake with the moon, not the sun.
It’s dark. It’s quiet. Sometimes I like the dark and quiet. I like the thoughts that seep from my mind and onto paper. Sometimes three a.m. is my productive time, a time when I write with no distractions. Not a single noise, not a single interruption.
Sometimes the dark and quiet are not my friend. There’s things that lurk in the dark, subtle noises that exist beneath the quiet. They stalk and haunt me, make me think about problems that might not even exist.
Every imagined spectre is swollen and larger than life in the dark. Every thought is magnified when it’s quiet.
Sometimes those spectres and thoughts can befriend me, come sit next to me on the couch and give me ideas. They let the words flow, the work progress.
But sometimes they are mean and selfish, stealing my words, poisoning my ideas with their toxins.
I never know which I’m going to face when I get up with the moon.
Lately, the mean ones have mostly stayed away. But every once in a while they come back to say hi. They sit next to me on the couch like old friends. “What, I should make you a cup of tea or something?” I ask them, as they push me around trying to get comfortable next to me.
"That would be nice," they say. "Sugar. Cream. Maybe some toast?"
I feed them, because I am nothing if not a good host. I feed them and they become stronger.
Why do I never remember what happens when I feed them?
I’m up with the moon again today. My old friends are here, jostling for a place next to me.
"Get your own damn tea," I tell them. "I’m trying to work here."
Insulted, they leave.
They’ll be back. If only it were that easy.