Or, the Worst Possible Time to Think of Something Worth Writing Is When You’re About to Fall Asleep
When sleep descends through the silence, I create.
My consciousness slips from reach, and my brain agrees with my body
to switch off, recharge.
But my mind takes us captive.
Us, those morsels of me that make me, Me.
I am not alone when I am with Me. and I am with Me most of the time.
Words swirl through my mind, suffocating my consciousness
Or: my almost not conscious-ness? My sleepy sleep brain
Only ever on the cusp–––
they wait to be linked and poured out or pored over.
A buttery flow of words and feelings and meaning dripping out but stalled
by my brain, the Mistress of Order, she who clings to sleep, the agreement between brain and body that we require rest.
Thoughts slip, destined to be felt but never heard
Is my Pulitzer Prize lost in this sea of the sleepy unwritten?
Or. How many Pulitzer Prizes are buried in the depths of my forgotten almost sleep?
Even in rest (especially?), hubris.
My sleepy mind, a dream state.
Dreams, where we practice/reform/reorder.
Dreams: where it is ok to do these things. But awake?
The same routine: an anxious mind.
If I don’t write my thoughts down, they are (only) for me.
If I don’t write my thoughts down, they are forgotten.
If I don’t write my thoughts down, they are not for me.
If I do write my thoughts down, who are they for?
Dream state drifts in real time now. Where do I go from here?
