The clock strikes midnight as I find my home once again. The weather inside my head has gone haywire over the past 48 hours after a week of sun, but the storm has calmed to a simple drizzle. My hands settle on the keys, and I find relief from the rain.
I’ve built a shelter here, on the gentle lines of another notebook; in the empty spaces of a digital page. It’s not the most glamorous home, but I know it well. I may be the only person here, but the words never let me be alone.
I don’t know where they come from most of the time. People often ask me where I get my ideas and I tell them I can’t be certain. I don’t know if I get them at all. It doesn’t seem I have them, that they’re mine. They seem to wander around, most of us just never allow ourselves to catch them.
Sometimes I spend days or weeks throwing out the trash. “I can’t write” people say to me, and I get it. I can’t write anything worthwhile most of the time. Not until I clear out most of the garbage. We can all write, but most of us don’t want to take out the bins if we don’t feel like we have to. But I see the people overflowing, and I wish they’d find the time.
We blindly wander around this planet deflecting cotton thoughts floating through the air without even realizing what we’re doing. Comforting little clouds of wisdom waiting to wedge their way in and we deny them with the never-ending noise. Our brains bustle like trains on broken tracks, another shattered thought crashing into oncoming traffic.
One explosion after another without any guidance or direction. Too much is going in at too high a speed, and we can’t keep tabs on it all; so we toss the crunched up wheels and torn seats back out into the space between you and me. Even after I’ve taken out my own garbage I still find the neighbors has blown onto my lawn. When a storm hits it flies into the air and God only knows where it lands, but when there’s so much trash it’s hard to decipher what’s yours. The panic and fear sets in because everything looks so ugly. We scream at the people whose garbage has lodged itself between the bushes of our lawns, not knowing they’re holding ours, too. All of the noise is only deflecting, and here we find ourselves yelling at the mirrors.
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Great post, don’t you want to just be able to leave others trash and not care?