Insomnia

A myriad of words are buzzing around my head, prickling my mind, imploring it to take them in, feed them into a poem, a story, a meaningful phrase. Fantastic images form, ideas flash, but whenever I try to gather them, shape them, tame them into an obedient piece of written work they just…vanish, disappear into thin air.

These words, so intangible, yet so sharp, sweet, cold…

What right do they have to hover randomly around me at 3am? What insolence to force me out of bed, under the pretext that they’ll fall into an orderly format as soon as I put my pen to paper, and then to just scatter off!

Maybe the light scared them off. Maybe words are like mushrooms, they grow in the dark, they lurk in our minds, crouch on the tip of our tongues ready to spring out, to spill over from head, through pen, to paper.

Either way, THEY (and the 6 cups of coffee I’ve had today) are keeping me awake at 3am. And instead of writing a meaningful narrative, here I am, watching the moon flicker behind the clouds and listening to a heated negotiation between two clans of stray dogs about which clan gets to bite the next drunk person who comes along.
No, no, no… sorry, Google translate was wrong when interpreting dogspeak, they actually mentioned something about their weekly attack on the meat shop. There, you can’t say you were lost in translation, but only that you’ve read a strange cocktail of words whose author was pretentious enough to think it was worth putting it up on a virtual wall for all to see.

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