Emerging from clouds between theta and delta rises the envisage, the essential nature, our souls. Words and ideas and dreams become stories in the writer’s mind.
Lying there, just a little longer, stories grow and take on life.
Horizontal in a chilled room before the first brushes of daylight: creation.
Before the eyes open, before the needs of the day press on, before the lists and media and people of the world take away the single small moments where stories spark –
I wish so much to remain there, just a little longer, in the moments just before wakefulness, eyes still closed, brain sparking connections, tiny fissures of light like small static flares against the blankets, feeling the contented pressure under my spine, the warmth of the down in the darkness, life all around is comforted and quiet.
I occasionally envy those who don’t need sleep, the man who gets only 15 minutes, the man who never rests, but that is some strange day-time illusion of getting more done, being more, having more, more more more. Their lives are shortened, their victories less sweet somehow, as if this time here in the bed in the darkness of deep night for reflection and creation are robbed from them.
This here, the first creation of life, happens in the dark, just before the light,
And, if I could write with my eyes closed, somehow pick up the pen or click the computer keyboard with my eyes closed, I would.
The vestiges of day – light and sound – are thieves making away with quiet thoughts that would have become life – story.
Just a moment longer here, then I’ll be there, with you.
2 thoughts on “Writing with My Eyes Closed”
wonderful nocturnal ruminations!