Stream of consciousness smacks me in the face so hard that it’s more akin to a raging river. Instead of myself drowning, I see bits of wisdom twist and tumble by on the crests of rapids, falling beneath the surface like my wife and I once did on a swimmer’s rapid in West Virginia, only to resurface once more - distant and out of reach.
Stray epiphanies like dogs not neutered have multiplied and they're lost in my mind like so many fish that got away, soon to settle back into their dens for a long unbroken rest. I trudge through the waters and stick my hand in every hole I can find, hoping with futility that I might scurry something up from the muck and noodle a good one.
I feel like a street light flickering - inconsistent at best, and unable to truly light the darkness even when I’m lit. I am a moth attracted to a distant and dingy yellow haze. I am the light at the end of my own tunnel, yet I can’t seem to mind-wrap a way to connect the dots la-la-la-la.
Always the internal dialogue speaks first of brief revelation, then longer of self-loss - an incessant and demanding distraction.
Maybe tonight I will write more of my book not-so-long forgotten.
