game consouls

Been experiencing nights lately where I wake up in the thick of night and am not able to return to sleep. It may be a sign, haven't had it like this since living at home early in college. Back then, it would be the same, wake up around 3 or 4am and have an undeniable energy that compelled me to my desk -- a visceral eagerness to write, to create. Somewhere along my path, I lost that. Maybe as I've developed a level of comfort and contentment with myself that once virile creative force has been blunted, no longer needing to be exorcised in the meridian of the night. And lately, this has been tugging at me. As my production has wained (even though my main projects have reached pinnacle realization) over the last year, I've wondered where that hunger went, where went that creative life-force that once seized me? Well, I feel it's knocking on my door again, and in this moment, there's no lock.

Last night, I did some successful writing for The Trail of Dead, then watched King of Kong: A Fistful of Dollars, which I heard celebrated reviews about. But I didn't expect the poignancy and universal narrative that the documentary so deftly delivered. Now, up front, I do understand the pattern authorship the documentary took to tell a cogent and entertaining narrative. So I realize the contextual disadvantage I have in the reality of it. But, this is about the reality of the situation becoming a channel, a platform for art to evidence a microcosm of universal Truth that gets abstracted and sensationalized from the everyday of us -- that this is a romantic movement, that there is self-fulfillment and redemption, and that people may lose sight in the spectacle of false prophets, but will always have the potential to recognize and open themselves to the goodness of a true son.