I write best when my mind reaches that third dimension where thoughts are tweezed from the outer limits. Of course, this kind of writing is more like a dream state that summons me out into the restless thought night to lasso the dancing words, corral them, make sense of them, tame them before they flee like winged creatures catching the next wind to Neverland.
Tonight is no exception. They wake me. They sing to me until the song becomes an earwig tunneling into my mind and laying word eggs that beg to be hatched. It doesn’t matter the time of day, they hatch when they are ready. They hatch and run chick-like scratching and pecking and chirping until the chick noise pops me fully awake and I wonder what words will be hatched at 2 AM that couldn’t wait until a decent hour.
So, here I sit. Hear I sit. Hearing the restlessness, but not hearing it. Feeling it tugging and gnawing trying to get through so my fingers will type the brain. Or, my brain will type the fingers.
I’m trying to unleash it...birth it.
The story of all stories. The story that will spellbind and enthrall. The story that will make the New York Times bestseller list. I know it is in there. I no that it is in there. No.
It’s the doubting no that creeps like a thief and pries the tweezers away leaving me with nothing to snatch the bestselling words. I’m left empty once again; dribbling nonsensical mocking words onto the paper.
Is tonight any different? Is no winning over know? Probably. So many times I’ve wrestled with this keyboard. I’ve begged it to produce the “story”. I’ve sat for years pondering the tale; but that’s another story; end of story; it’s a long story; the same old story; as the story goes...there it goes. Gone.
The winged creatures took the thoughts. The chickens have come home to roost in my brain. Their pecking, clucking, scratching words have ceased. Now, the silence is deafening. All I hear is the hollow sound of the A/C singing its sweet lullaby that beckons me to the warm covers where sleep might finally take me away. I doubt it.
Maybe tomorrow the story will hatch. What shall I call it?