Summer Insomnia

Silence save for the cicadas outside.

Darkness save for glow of my computer screen.

Solitude save for the Internet.

What little coldness that can be provided by the AC.

My mind runs rampant with the thoughts of today.  Wordless ideas and idea-less words flit through my brain, trying to match up together.  Stories come to mind and write themselves in seconds, faster than I could ever type out.  They settle for the recognition they get from me, realizing that they are too quick for me to catch, too complicated for me to write, the voiceless thoughts in my head that are shunted to the side, the ones that are never spoken of.

The ache in my knee is forgotten.  My back cramps from my awkward position, but I don't care.  Thoughts of tomorrow, of the eight o'clock wake-up call, of the chores and the appointments, of taking my meds and remembering to get my flash drive, do not matter to me.  What matters is the fleshless lives I hold inside me.  What matters is the stories clammering to be told.  What matters is sorting through them, picking the right ones out, telling what needs to be told, leaving the others behind in the dark.

I cannot apologize to them enough.  I cannot say anything to these thoughts that makes staying in a dark closet any more bearable.  I can promise to come back, but the older occupants of the closet know that the only time I return, it is to add to their number, not to take anything away.

The Closet in my head is a sad place.  It is dark and dank.  The floor around it is covered in dust, revealing a place where few wish to tread, but dust tracked with footprints, signifying the need to go there.  The Closet is a place where Voiced Ideas never wish to go.  They know all too well that it could have been them in there, it could have been the lying in the dust, forgotten and unused, but they don't want to think about it.

Every so often, though, one of them will.  The idea will consciously acknowledge what has become of its kin, and will fall into a depressive funk.  Nothing will come out of that idea for days, perhaps even months.  At times, its mood will be picked up by the rest--or just several others--of the Voiced Ideas.  They will mourn for the Voiceless, they will refuse to offer up anything new, and they will mope and sulk for the state of things.

Now and again, a Voiceless Idea will sneak from the closet.  It will come again to me, and present itself in a different way.  "Look at me," it will say.  "I have a Voice.  I am not Prose, dear Writer, but Poetry.  Write one page about me; give me a moment to speak.  I will not let you down.  Surely you have time for a page of rhyming verse."

So often, too, these Ideas come through.  They are the Recycled, the Voiceless given a Voice, and they sing loud and strong, reminders that there will always be hope, whatever their message is.

And I sit here, hunched over a computer, in my semi-Silence, semi-Darkness, semi-Solitude, and somewhat-Cold, having said a sad no to another idea, but asking it to think, to find a different side of itself to show me.

I figure, as I slip under my blanket and head towards dreams, if I can present myself to the world in a different light than before, why can't my Ideas?