thoughts between 12:30am and 1am.

I write for no one's approval. I write to find myself, to make sense of all that appears in my mind. I write to remember the little lines that come to me, that stay in my head until I create something, not thought of but felt. I write to find the thought that left before I could think it. I write of people I want to meet, of my dreams and memories I want to set on fire, then watch the flames shoot up as the memory gets set free into the universe, no longer locked up in the back of my wild mind, haunting my dreams. I write to find my voice, hoping it will be heard and clearly understood with no explanations being asked. 

For the words I write are not jumbled or stuck in my throat screaming to get out. They are pure and honest, crazy and calm, sad and exciting, reflecting and wandering. They are mine and mine alone. Some will be showed, others kept for my eyes only in notebooks written in pen with awful handwriting.

As I write these words, sounds of Sympathy For The Devil playing on repeat, mixed with a calming fan at 12:47am, barely Monday morning. I got the urge to write with repeating the beginning lines of this piece as I was getting ready to sleep.

I'm not sure when or if this piece will catch your eyes. But if it does, stop and listen to the voice you hear in your head while reading my words, and think of the images that cross your mind throughout my piece. 

As my hand gets tired, words start falling off the lines of the page they're being written on. The Stones still playing, fan still calming, elbow getting tired as I lay on my stomach. My mind begins to dream of the sparks from those burning memories like shooting stars as I close my notebook and the clock strikes one.

A blue star dances by the fire as I close my eyes.

Dreams begin..  

10.12.2015