A/N: Hey guys! Back again with another drabble! Hope you like it!
The sound of cicadas fills the summer night, bleeding into his room. The hours have been ticking away bit by bit leaving nothing much to focus on except himself.
But even that is difficult when thoughts drift by so quickly that they slip through his fingers if he tries to reach forward and grasp one.
It leaves him with a feeling of barely having it together that is slowly swallowing him whole.
The clock reads two thirty AM and the buzzing of the cicadas seems louder than ever against the silence of the night. Or maybe that's just the buzzing of his brain.
If you want answers, they say, then you have to ask questions. But what if you don't know the questions? What if all you have is a half-formed idea of an answer and no clear way of arriving at it?
He stands up, for the sole purpose of doing something but it doesn't make him feel any better. All it does is remind him that he is actually tired and he should really get some sleep.
Instead, he sits back down and stares at his clock as if the night holds something more than the passing of time and that if he stays up, he'll get that answer he's looking for.
All that happens is that it reads two thirty-five.
Sighing, he leans back against his headboard. There's noting here. There's nothing coming.
He needs to stop waiting.
Eyes wide open, he sits back up.
Stop waiting. The first thought he's been able to focus on all night. But it quickly leads to the next question of, what does he do in place of waiting? Clearly, the answer is a call to action…but what action?
How does he know what to do? How does he know it will work?
The tiredness hits him in full force in the wake of the impossible questions he's just posed to himself along with the realization that he needs to actually do something. His bed seems to be calling to him more than ever.
It's easy to say stop waiting and start doing, it's much harder to actually start doing. Especially if you don't know what to do.
He leans back in his bed, succumbing to the tiredness with his mind now reeling with all the things he could do and all the motivation he doesn't have to them.
Eyes fluttering close he thinks that if the thought of doing something is this tiring, how will he ever do it?
Then again, he supposes, the alternative is just to keep waiting and that hadn't really gone well either.
Despite his tiredness though, sleep doesn't come, and he finds himself staring once again at the clock now reading two fifty-five.
How quickly time passes when we're not looking. How little regard it has for us, it just keeps going without much thought at all.
Maybe, a thought slowly forms ad he watches the second hand tick away. Maybe it doesn't matter.
Maybe it doesn't matter what he does, just that he does something.
So right then at two fifty-eight in the morning, he pulls out a journal he abandoned long ago and stares at the dark cover.
There's not too many previous entries, but he reads through them, briefly re-living the moments he wrote about. It's weird now to think of that past, when those things had bothered him. It all seems so…distant now.
He picks up a pen and poses it on the blank page, still not sure what to write.
Stop waiting.
So he just forces words. Random stuff about his day, this moment, how he doesn't know what he's doing, and it's not the best. But as he keeps forcing himself, the words start to flow a little more easily.
It takes a page and a half of completely random bullshit for him to arrive at what he didn't know he wanted. And now that he's here, the words flow like the ink from his pen. It's three forty-one by the time he's finished.
He looks at the clock then at the journal pages he's juts filled.
Nothing has changed, the night still passes on, the cicadas still buzz and all he has is a bunch of paper with words on it.
But, it's something.
The buzzing seems quieter, the thoughts mote solid, his eyes even more tired.
Ultimately, he's not really sure what he accomplished, if anything, but it's better than nothing. He feels a bit more together than he did before, so he takes it as a win.
His last thought before he falls asleep is that maybe he'll go back and read those pages years from this moment. And maybe it'll feel as distant as the other ones felt today.
That maybe this, whatever this is, will fade into the depths of time, only remembered by some words scribbled down at three in the morning on a summer night.
A/N: As you probably know if you've been following me or this series for some time, writing is my way of getting through things. When I started writing this oneshot I was looking for something, much like Percy, but had no clue what I needed to stop feeling the general feeling of not-great I was feeling at the time.
Simply writing this out made me feel better. I know that not everyone likes to write like me and not everyone uses it as a pseudo therapy like I do, but if you haven't tried it, I'd suggest just pulling out any scrap piece of paper and simply writing about your day or some random thoughts you have on a movie or whatever. You might write your way into the thing you needed to get to. Who knows? Or if writing really isn't your thing than find out, or go do, what is.
Sometimes we feel not great without really knowing why we feel that way, especially when nothing is seemingly wrong, and that's what this fic is all about, getting it out of your system in whatever means works for you. And of course, time and distance will also help.
Apologies for the long authors note! Please Review! I'd love to hear your thoughts!
And as always, thanks for reading!
See ya! :)