It’s one of those nights.

My head is quiet; the night is calm, my bed is comfortable and I am surrounded by family in a house that is not just a clever design of bricks and glass, but a home.

But in my heart there is a gathering storm. 

It’s on nights like these that when I write, the words would crash across the page like ocean waves, leaving me awed and baffled when I reread it later.

On nights like these, feeling would ebb and flow between one word and the other. On nights like these, writing would not be about putting images that exists in the mind into words, no, on nights like these, writing would be like scraping my heart out of my chest, where it would beat, brilliantly crimson, between paragraphs.

It is on nights like these, that I would pull out every layer of feeling that is in me—agony, pain, joy, sadness, bitterness, loss, delight—and smear it across the page where everyone can see.

It is on night like these where I stare at empty pages and watch it fill regardless of what I want. 

It is on night like these where I do not think. I only feel.