from the archives ... ahem... notebook

It's been years, but my pen is inching towards me across my desk, like the piano that sends vibrations up the stairs to itch my idle fingers. Words bounce off each other in the jumble of thoughts and emotions in my head, battling to take precedence over the now. My lids are quick to close in a moment of mental drifting and I look at the clock, incredulous at my own stupidity -- I will feel it in the morning -- but still I can't force my fingers to stop doing my thinking for me, my feeling. Prodigy, prodigious, progeny, profligate, prose. I don't know what's driving the pen anymore, or me for that matter. Maybe just a dire need for strawberries and sleep. A search for sanity. No choice but to settle with sleep. In the vast solitude of neither sense nor skill, a soft descent into the calm chaos of my night. Night that will edge into a musty dawn long before I have exhausted the haven of abstraction.