Why does creativity only spark when it’s the middle of the night and I’m alone?

I set up sections during my day, small spots of quiet where I can curl up in front of my computer and let these words pour forth. But, I sit here and am distracted as a cat, my attention flicking back and forth like the tip of a tail.

But, when I can feel sleep pressing down and my responsibilities whispering in my ear, that’s when my fingers itch and I find myself overflowing like a sink.

Why is the dark so warm during the witching hour?

Is that what sparks in my nerves? A kind of witchcraft zipping through my veins and eating my my reason until I write and write and write and write and afterwards I feel hungover and relieved, purged and empty for the first time since I sat down.

It’s like being possessed, a kind of compulsion that steals your breath, like the Goddess Herself is whispering the words into your ear, and if anyone else heard them you’d be burned alive.

And, it’s so thrilling that you never want to sleep.

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