Words that refuse to be written

My brain is working already but I refuse to open my eyes and commit to the day until my alarm goes off. The flood of ideas begins as it does every morning. Sometimes it is things I would like to make or places I could go to compose a photo, but mostly it’s ideas for writing and I’m already mourning those that will never be written.

Some stories are able to be jotted down in skeletal form and revisited later to be built and nurtured into existence. Some are just topics that may turn into any number of possibilities, but there are others that I know will never exist outside of my mind in this moment in my sheets. Those are the ones I am sad about.

When these ideas come to life, they are in full colour and I can see the actions happening as if I am there. I may feel calm or my heart may race depending on what’s happening, or I may even feel the emotion of the situation and wonder if tears will well up. Sadly I know that these words are so perfect that I will not be able to recreate them with my fingers along the keyboard. They are asking to be enjoyed now.

There is no time to get a computer or even paper. To do that would be to interrupt the story and lose the ending forever. Computers have to power up, which takes an eternity when you want to get something down. And to start to write would be to distract my brain with details such as crispness of paper, graphite against white, or curly lettering that encourages my mind to drift towards images of feathers or dog tails.

I thought I’d come to a conclusion that I am meant to be writing this stuff down. After all these years of writing for myself and suffering somewhat ill-fitting careers I finally had the epiphany that this is what I was meant to be doing. The words have been trying to tell me this, but I haven’t listened until now. Now I am listening. I’ve shifted my entire life’s vantage point and have given up a regular income. All these sacrifices have felt so right, so why wouldn’t all of the words want to be written? What is the purpose of these stories that refuse to let me reproduce them? Is it the brain still dreaming from the previous night? Is it just processing and filing thoughts and the format just happens to be beautiful? Is this my brain’s way of saying, “Don’t get too cocky! You don’t get to show everyone the best stuff, you know.” ? Perhaps they are only gifts intended for me. How wonderful a notion.

I won’t be dissuaded. I’ll continue on with writing those things that want to be written. I feel rewarded by those good little stories that comply with the physical conventions of my life. Should I mourn the others? I somehow feel there is a different lesson to learn from those, but I haven’t found out what it is yet.