It's been a while since I last took pen to paper. Sometimes that scares me more than anything else does. Because very often it means I've run out of things to feel. I only write what...when...I feel...and when that stops, your mind becomes a scary place. You become aware of the vaguely formed bogeys silently holding a vigil on the edges of your consciousness. And the recycled thoughts. Like a tape that's stuck so you hear the same tune over and over again. And in 2/3 rds indifference and 1/3 rd fascination you watch to see how long it will go on this time. If nothing else a degree in psychology teaches you to catalogue well and keep good records.
When the lights have been turned off and along with it all the noises of the day, it's easy to believe that I'm at the bottom of a very deep well. From where I am, the surface seems a long away off and the sky even further. If I squint I can almost see the brighteness that lies just outside, barely visible but as beyond my reach as the stars. And with horror I see that my hands have been digging deeper into the earth, as if by their own accord and most definitely against my will. No, I tell my hands, that's not the way to go, it's up I want. They don't seem to care but I still do. I think. Then I wonder if maybe they've pledged allegiance to an invisible enemy. Why is it so hard to get your mind to listen? But then the sun comes out and you find it's another brand new day, with so much to do, so much to accomplish, a schedule to stick to..so you can cheat a little and not listen to your mind either. You may never win the war but there's a measure of satisfaction in knowing you're not making it too easy either.
And that is why I like days best.
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