I was told that if you can’t sleep, you write. So here I am writing things of no consequence—just for the sake of writing.

Ten years ago, I would have hungrily grabbed this opportunity to write anything. I was 18 and I felt I had a lot of things to say. Perhaps most 18-year-olds are really that way. Blogging was like water. I craved it. I needed it.

Now, at 28, I find that I have nothing much to say. It’s hard to figure out if it’s because I’ve grown weary—or if it’s because I’ve grown wiser and I know better to shut up because I really don’t know anything.

It’s 1:40. I think I’ll just count sheep.

Or pigs. Pigs that slowly morph into strips of bacon.

Which reminds me. I really need to start jogging.

Creative people who actually have creative careers are lucky. The rest of us frustrated creatives can only live our dreams vicariously through other people. And by other people, I mean the small percent of the population who can call their passion their day job.

For us mere mortals, we make do by indulging in our creative fantasies whenever we have the time. If we have the time. We hide in the bedroom with an old guitar, pretending to play for a crowd. We spend weekends writing drafts of a novel that we’ve never even shown anyone. We dream and we wish art could be our everyday reality. But then Monday comes around and “real life” pushes all these thoughts away into the background.

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