tonight i get three hours with which to create a world as far removed from my own as possible. the tedium has overrun everything and consumed my creativity. there are no longer bursts. those furious moments where something has to be recorded one way or another before short term memory falters and overflows its banks.

there's a drought.

somehow writer's block and lack of inspiration does not extend to the subconscious, a place from where i assume my dreams come. this leads me to believe that i have not, in fact, run out of ideas or creativity or inspiration and my brain is not, in fact, drying up as i creep closer to my third decade with every passing day, but that i somehow am not allowing it to manifest itself consciously in my waking life.

as a result i am not sleeping again.

i fear that i am missing those hours where inspiration is happening and am conducting an experiment to see if in the hours that i normally dream that it is in fact bouts of creativity synapsing in my brain. i know that i am fucking up my circadian rhythm, but if i don't do these things that make me feel alive i feel the opposite.

tonight i have three hours in which i will recharge briefly, and writing this has taken up one-sixth of one of those.