the mood
we in the livejournal community know what this mood is. it is the mood that says to you "Don't go to sleep; think. Think about the world, think about God, think about your purpose and your past and your ever approaching future. Don't waste your precious time sleeping!"
it is the mood which suggests that if only you could devote enough time to clearing the fog from your mind, all of the answers you search for are waiting there. this mood grips us, it pulls us onwards into the deepest hours of the night and darkest corners of our souls in an infinite search for the intangible. it makes you feel like a poet, a writer, and a philosopher all wrapped up in one existential crisis waiting to burst.
WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE!? it asks. the mood begs, it pleads, it weeps in a quiet desperation. the fog does not disperse, but thickens as fatigue and despair conspire against any epiphany that might have otherwise broken free.
we ask ourselves, why couldn't this mood have taken its grip in the afternoon? during the day i would have had the energy i need to keep my thoughts organized. how can i solve the puzzles of the universe when holding my eyelids up is a worsening struggle?
but that's what makes the mood so sinister; it thrives only when we are too weak and too exhausted to hold ourselves to the normal routines of thinking. epiphany is not born of the crisply conscious mind, but rather the mind that is so scrambled and lost that it is able to see the world differently. the mood balances itself on a thin crest between rationality and dreaming. if we go too far in either direction we lose our chance. the fog thickens and our answers, which felt so very close, fall back into obscurity.
it is the mood which suggests that if only you could devote enough time to clearing the fog from your mind, all of the answers you search for are waiting there. this mood grips us, it pulls us onwards into the deepest hours of the night and darkest corners of our souls in an infinite search for the intangible. it makes you feel like a poet, a writer, and a philosopher all wrapped up in one existential crisis waiting to burst.
WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE!? it asks. the mood begs, it pleads, it weeps in a quiet desperation. the fog does not disperse, but thickens as fatigue and despair conspire against any epiphany that might have otherwise broken free.
we ask ourselves, why couldn't this mood have taken its grip in the afternoon? during the day i would have had the energy i need to keep my thoughts organized. how can i solve the puzzles of the universe when holding my eyelids up is a worsening struggle?
but that's what makes the mood so sinister; it thrives only when we are too weak and too exhausted to hold ourselves to the normal routines of thinking. epiphany is not born of the crisply conscious mind, but rather the mind that is so scrambled and lost that it is able to see the world differently. the mood balances itself on a thin crest between rationality and dreaming. if we go too far in either direction we lose our chance. the fog thickens and our answers, which felt so very close, fall back into obscurity.