The dead of night

It’s a stormy night. The wind is howling outside my windows. There are two, as my room is situated on the corner of the building, right at the top. A place where the billowing of the wind can be felt all around. I've left both windows partially open, and though it is a cool night, the heating in my room means that the cool gusts of wind swiftly entering my room at both angles isn’t a problem. The gentle pitter-patter of the rain can be heard when the mighty wind takes a small rest and then once it regains it force and momentum, it hurls the gentle rain against my windows and the pitter-patter changes to a vigorous drumming. It’s as if the wind in all its anger is humming a low and angry tune that almost sounds like a rumble and the rain, the sweet gentle rain, is attempting to soothe it, but ends up calling attention to itself so that the irate wind turns it displeasure on it.

Among all this noise is the swishing noise of my curtains, as they dance to the tune of the wind. They’re made of a type of nylon and viscose material, quite stiff and when they flutter the sound they create is similar to that of the pages in a book when they are being turned. 

The beauty of this night has created a perfect environment to write. It invokes the right emotions and the right mood. 

But what am I doing? Why am I still awake? I haven't studied properly in over a week and as far as I am aware my exams are still on. I feel so frustrated but I can't help but want to stay up and write. I've been feeling simultaneously miserable and hopeful... yet the idea for a new story came to me, so as I couldn't revise I decided to write. And in between the writing I've been writing blog posts... What kind of maze have I created for myself? Lord only knows.