I woke up sometime after 8 a.m. (which is still night to me) with something on the tip of my tongue -- my pen -- my fingers. Without lighting up a cigarette or putting on my glasses, I darted for my notepad and pen. Before I even had said items in my hands, the words were gone... the idea, gone. I walked to a mirror to examine my face. My eyes refused to reveal any information related to the urgent thoughts that had roused me from my slumber.
I sat, pen in hand, paper before me, and closed my eyes to poke about in the recesses of my brain, seeking the words that eluded me. When I opened my eyes, I realized that I had dozed off and it was nearly an hour later.
This sort of thing has been happening to me quite frequently as of late. There's something in there -- in my brain... something important that I can't seem to force out, no matter how hard I try. Perhaps it's the Great American Novel... perhaps the greatest poem ever written... but I doubt it. I lack the talent. So I assume the thoughts, ideas or words that wake me will explain my behavioral patterns. They could also be related to the feeling I've often had that I've missed something of great importance.
Nevertheless, I imagine myself ambling about in my old age still seeking, still waking up with it on the tip of my tongue -- my pen -- my fingers. I worry and imagine the words to come only after I've lost the ability to express them.
