It's midnight on a Thursday masquerading as a Friday and I'm restless.
There's seemingly something on my mind, yet I'm not too sure what it is. Though I just had a lovely movie night with a friend, and now I have a wide open long weekend ahead of me, I feel ill at ease.
As though there is something I'm forgetting.
And I know the few things I have to do cannot really be responsible for this state of mind. With all my practice at balancing life, tightropes don't seem so scary anymore.
A sink full of dishes and a few papers is hardly worth ruminating over. But, still, my head cycles around, like a hamster in a wheel, looking for that mysterious finish line.
A wise man told me that I should let the inspiration come to me, that ideas will just flow.
And so I keep my fingers moving.
My own version of free association.
I think back to random events of the day.
How everything has been mysteriously smelling of toast, which urban legend tells me means I have been on the verge of a stroke for a week.
How desperately the woman standing beside me on the bus clung to her partner, while he limply held his arms to his side.
How the man on the train spoke all too nonchalantly of mice in his bed.
How different the rain sounds when you can't hear it on the roof, only through the window.
I think I think too much sometimes.
I sometimes get a little envious of how serene ignorance must be.
How delightful it must be to just stare at the TV for a few hours, and just let it all seep in through your pores, carefree. More than an couple hours on the couch, and I feel unsettled, as though I am wasting my time, and need to get up, shake out the monotony.
The odd thing is, even though I've said nothing, had no epiphany, something about my fingers on the keys has quieted me down a little. As though the process of formally transferring phrases from my mind to the screen, as meaningless as they may be, clears out a little space, which is quickly filled with a wave of drowsiness.
Yawning is like a delicious little surrender.