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Sleepless nights. Wandering thoughts.

An idea persists, but words do not come easy. Shaping plots lines and developing characters the writer presses through countless distractions to sculpt a narrative. Day after day he presses forward to bring this story to completion. A story held close to his heart. He’s always second guessing its value. Will anyone care? Will anyone listen? Does my voice matter?

His story speaks a terrible and beautiful tail of humanity’s journey from decay to restoration. It is universal and yet personal.

One story can change history. One story can change the trajectory of culture.

What is your story?


A writer lays in bed next to his wife who's sleeping peacefully. He can't sleep. He turns to look at her. He feels an inner sense of isolation. He wants to talk to her, but he knows it would be useless. She wouldn't understand his struggle and he doesn't want to disturb the peacefully beauty laying next to him. He sits up on the edge of the bed. He bends over to put his head in his hands. Should he just get up? Or should he try to force himself back to sleep. He gets up and leaves the room.

He enters his study and stands in front of a bookshelf. He looks over the titles gently brushing his fingers over the bindings of some of the books. It's his way of showing respect to the authors that have inspired him over the years. He finds the book he's looking for. He thumbs through it. He hungers for inspiration. His eyes move back and forth as he reads rapidly to find some sort spark.

Still restless he decides to go for a walk. Maybe the night air will clear his head.

Walking through the metro we hear the voice over talking of his inner struggle. Will his story matter? Will anyone care? What is significance anyway?

After walking on overpasses and through various visual environments he finds himself on top of a tall building at twilight. He opens his journal and begins to rip pages out of it in frustration. A montage of imagery is displayed. Close up shots of pages being ripped. Close up shots of his rage, he yells in hatred at the world. Hand written notes laying on the ground. The author falls to his knees. He's feels defeated by his own self doubt.

Slowly he composes himself. He looks at the ground and among the ripped out pages he finds a picture of his wife. He smiles and wipes away tears. He begins to realize there is more to his life than just being a successful artist. There is more to life than being known for what he does.

He smiles in relief. He picks up the pages and looks out over the city. The sun is beginning to rise. He pauses to take in the view. Then he throws the paper into the air releasing himself from the pressure of perfection.