Flying around Nowhere

Lately I’m finding that it is ok with me to be late for work if it is because I am getting some writing in.

Also, I’m finding it ok with me if I go a day without anything tangibly accomplished as long as something small or large was learned or some little or small burst of creativity was brought to life through me.

That is why I value these moment.

They are all I have.

Last night I couldn’t sleep. Well, it wasn’t a sleepless night. I’m actually a pretty good sleeper. Usually, I can fall asleep very quickly.

But last night I was wide awake for over two hours after going to bed.

I found myself filled with thoughts of writing.

Not writing like I’m doing now.

Not even writing, really.

It was more like pictures of words.

Like different fonts and word and letter arrangements.

Different handwritings and letter sizes.

Incomplete sentences and incoherent phrases.

Words that sound like discords when put together but when the pair is in the middle of a larger whole just seem to somehow fit.

They say that some math geniuses and memory experts are like this. They see numbers as pictures.

Yesterday was pi day. 3/14. Einstein’s birthday. Coincidence that I went to bed thinking of all of this and it drifted into a black hole of infinity?

Sentences turned to phrases turned to words turned to letters turned to numbers turned to images turned to spots of light turned to black.

Then black.

Not the black of sleep. The black of a conclusion. An emptiness that equates to an exhale. The end of a symphony.

Or at least the end of that movement.

Because then the thought, “I love the process” was heard clear as day in my mind.

Some people like having worked out. They like having written. They like having completed a film. LIke having saved a life. Like having taught someone. LIke having trained their dog.

Few people like actually doing any of it. It is grueling. It is hard work. It isn’t always as fun as your imagination told you it would be.

When I write it is different.

I was always terrified of writing. I never ever liked it. EVER. The thought of even starting it scared me. I never ever thought I could finish anything. And the thought of having a finished product actually just made me a bit too anxious.

But, whenever I was assigned something that I HAD to write, I could get in a groove unlike any other and just do it. But only for as long as one part of my brain could trick the other part into thinking I was doing anything other than writing.

Eventually, that trickery began to last longer and longer.

Whenever I finish having written something. I don’t feel relief or satisfaction. I feel like I’ve been dropped off on the other side of a hill on the same level of ground. I didn’t have to climb the hill. I don’t even remember the hill. I feel like some large bird grabbed me on the one side and carried me for an indefinite amount of time through the air and the ether with the greatest of care and then let me go gently and softly on the other side with the same terrain and the same atmosphere.

I never know where this muse bird takes me. Or even if it will give me another ride ever again. I always want to go back up with it. And am actually kind of sad each time it lets me go. But, both it and I have work to do and can’t just fly around nowhere forever.


About heathencomehome

question marks & ellipses
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