Thoughts turn to smoke as my ideas
play hide and seek with my mind. I’m not sure if its my mind playing tricks or my brain skipping a beat. Either way I long for a blank slate, I’m tired of this static illusion.
Focusing is like chasing chickens that got lose from their pen. Scattered brains frustrate my efforts to pick up a topic and go to work. It’s like trying to toss a smoke ring in a summer shower.
Why do I even have the desire to think, let alone write, when I can’t even make sense of my thoughts. Like its right on the tip of my mind, but again the thought escapes me. How many epiphanies have I lost to the dark place.
It’s like getting to work and realizing you have no power. You have the tools, the plan, and the ideas, but your thoughts aren’t connected. So you stare at power tools and start to dream of what folks did before electricity.
So I look for a hand saw and hammer; anythings better than accepting defeat. Something will spark and my efforts will be rewarded by the smell of freshly cut wood as I imagine a forest with the sweet smell of cedar.
Suddenly the original plan doesn’t seem as eclectic, too standardized. So now my ideas become art and the original thoughts meld with my dreams and I’m lost in creating something I can’t imagine yet, but desperately have to purge it from my brain.
This is not a safe place for everyone and I understand that. I too once needed guides and structures to maintain my balance. Now I need the feeling of falling to make me jump. My brain Is free and my feet skip along with my thoughts to new ideas that occupy my hands.
There is a second wind within cognition. Yes, there are those moments where the stitch in your side gives you pause, but the possibilities of “something” gives me the belief that something ahead could be great.
This is me throwing smoke rings in a summer shower. I know nothing will stick, but the fluid nature of smoke melting in the myst stimulates my brain to not care about what I’ve lost. I have to keep throwing smoke rings till one is high enough for the sun to shine through.
Then the day will appear and I’ll have to plug in my tools and give life to another idea. The destructive nature of a job! If I could think all day maybe I could chase away the rain and sit back blowing smoke rings and time like I didn’t care about the world outside my brain.