Thought Loss

You’re at it again.

 

Slaving away over your laptop, slamming out words at an aggressive pace. The time is well past what’s considered healthy for a normal circadian rhythm–but when something calls to you, it calls to you, and it clenches you tight in an iron fist.

 

Period, dash, apostrophe, question mark. This is it, you think, heart rate bumping up that extra notch. Something’s coming. Your duet with the keyboard continues, every word blossoming to life in your head and bleeding onto the too-bright screen. Like breathing. You smirk a little at how conquerable the writing process is–cutting through warm butter–when a faint impression of an idea drifts up in your ribcage and bumps into your heart. It turns into a white-hot spark and you gasp for breath.

 

These words are coming too fast, and your dance is a violent tango now. So many ripe, juicy, pretty sentences for the picking; it’s impossible to catch them all. That doesn’t matter. You’re weaving a basket of ideas: so what if a couple splatter onto the floor?

 

Just as the bonfire underneath your heart starts burning too hot, almost painful, you stop to take a breather. Already a bit of the fire fizzles out, but infernos need oxygen to burn. Long, midnight shadows chase your peripheral vision. The AC turns off, making this brief pause that much more profound. Your foot itches.

 

The seconds stretch into a minute, and your dance partner leaves before you can even notice they’re gone.

 

The basket breaks. The iron grip rusts. Every thought tumbles out of your arms, and all you can do is gape at them as they smash apart into a sad puddle. Something puts out the fire in your chest, leaving behind embers. You try to rekindle them, but you’re only adding plastic as kindle and eventually an accidental sigh blows them all out.

 

The already-written words on your screen laugh at you. Look at us! they squeak. Don’t we look perfect? Don’t you wish there were more of us? You glare. Yes. Yes, a million “yes'”s but you forgot just how annoying ideas are when they’re spontaneous–and, its more evil counterpart, elusive.

 

You sigh and power off your laptop, wincing at the resounding click of the lid snapping shut. A few winks of sleep beckons. The school day tomorrow seems heavier on this side of night. Some feeble ghosts flutter into your head, but they aren’t as beautiful now when your brain reminds you to feel fatigued. Your eyelids sink down as you travel to a darkness that isn’t penetrated by an electronic screen.

 

Maybe next time.

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