The Far and Blurry Distances

I often wonder what it is about nights that sends my sleep running off into the far and blurry distances. It is as if the night clouds glide above my house and the sleep tiptoes away, leaving in its wake sounds and thoughts and flashes of the future that haunt me and my pen for the rest of the night. There are these clear and convincing elements of newness and chance in the very air I exhale because these elements seem to take root inside me. So when the sky darkens the way a pot of water darkens when you swirl into it ink and memories, just like that the sky darkens and the roots inside me shift and get pulled toward my hand. I feel so awake at night that I almost believe that I’m an insomniac.

But it is in these moments of newness and clarity and convincing airs that I feel a sound and a music that makes its way to my pen and from there I drop the notes on paper and I’m left with the intonation of breathing and gasping and wanting more of the music. There is a fluidity that springs up in every word I choose, and that fluidity slides and slips on paper matching the rhythm of my hand and my mind. Moments of flurried heartbeats and moments of calm in mind, the way the waters calm down after a storm and you can almost see them slump back their shoulders and the levels go down and the water parts only with the movement of the fishes and swishing of the weeds and the swirling of the water plants.

In such moments, long moments of night, I feel myself slip deeper into the realm that exists only within my hand and it seems to move to my mind and my heart which is contrary to how every other writer speaks because my realm is my pocket of words and let them out one after the other and they make sense and make my mind and my heart decide which way to do. That, to me, is so unlike someone who knows the exact sound, music and flow that needs to be delivered through the pen.

When night passes and before that somehow because of some cloud or string of clouds the sky above my house had let me sleep with my pen in hand I know that I am not an insomniac, just someone who wants to hear the sounds of the words clinging to paper and let my mind know the flow it had not recognized when my sleep had gone running off into the far and blurry distances.

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