Writing
Uninspired. The only word I can think of to describe my life and it's lack of written, recorded thought. A million phrases from seemingly complete and polished musings travel across my mind, but most of them will likely never see the edge of a pen. This is a routine that I can no longer tolerate. A friend played piano for me days after my birthday. The notes overtook me, each key pressed adding to my wonderment. In my hands was a journal, empty, waiting open with unprecedented hunger in immense anticipation to satisfy my yearning for self-expression.
Out of respect for my pianist friend and her beautiful melody, I closed my journal. Today, I take another leap onto the page, pen in hand, to capture my ups and downs, my struggles, my ambition, hope, my dreams and my fears.
The ink dries.
The book lay open, waiting for when pen and paper again collide and mere subconscious musing and observation become encyclopedic fact.
I close the journal.
A click of my new bedside lamp sends my room and I into darkness.
I close my eyes, and for the first time in a while, I let my mind rest.
~the insomniac
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