The desire to write, the whim to read, the inclination to create, or read a book, or take a walk, to invest in life in a way that can not be captured the conventional day to day chores and activities, never seems to strike except at the most inconvenient times, like now, when I should be asleep, but instead find myself driven here, to record something that I am more channeling than creating, as small and inconsequential as it may be. I wonder why that is...
Perhaps it is because when you get it right, and you go to bed with no concerns or worries, your mind is able to float free, and go where it will, instead of being slave to the random senseless stimuli, pressures, and commitments of the mundane. So you stand for a moment before going to bed in front of your bookcase, and realize you're in the middle of three books that you haven't touched in months, and that it really would be nice to take yet a fourth untouched book down, go outside, and read in the warm sun.
Granted, of course, you could find a patch of grass in the middle of a city where you wouldn't be distracted by people, cars, planes, or even just birds and bugs.
And then something clicks, suddenly you have something to say that you want others to hear, so you get up and go to write it down, not really knowing why, knowing full well you're reneging on the commitment you made not twenty four hours ago to change, to get to bed on time, to get good sleep, to not give in to what really amounts to a pointless whim...yet you don't really feel like letting it bounce around in your head for the next hour before you get to sleep is really an option.
So here I am...and there it is.