I was struck by a feeling at 4am.
That's usually the way it goes, a big epiphany when I should be dreaming of sweet nothings.
It hit me somewhere in my scatty head and punched me in the gut, all whilst attempting to manage a sleepy daze.
The feeling wasn't a romantic one, but it felt a little like love does.
Claustrophobic. Illuminating. Dangerous.
With a chance of all your dignity being burnt to a crisp.
I've built this up too much.
It ain't so dramatic.
I just want to write. For the first time in nearly a year.
I suppose that is fairly monumental. I know of at least one person that would pat me on the back for this small victory.
Two, if you count my Mum.
My hope is that it sticks. I've got things I want to say in a slightly poetic way again.
Hey, it's a bloody revelation.
Now that this feeling, revelation, epiphany is potentially here to stay I want to make big plans.
Big little plans, for me.
Days and weeks and months of just me.
Me and my writing tools.
And maybe some wine. Just to massage the cliché a little more.