This morning out of shear exhaustion I slept. I slept right through the maniac’s hours. Not like me, but life has been hard and I have the extra worry of my family returning home today. I feel so out of sorts, my routine ruined. Time is escaping me as much as I fight it. I must take ‘my time’ to do what I do, whether in the still of the night or the shining sun of daylight.
I am not sure I can fully explain, what the maniac’s hours and ensuing routine represent to me. I need them, I crave them, without that time I don’t breath. I know it will take tomorrow to get things back on course. For it’s not just about the coffee, and time, and the vibrant bright life of creativity that fills my head and my soul. I tried oh I tried to replicate it, at various other times with utter abysmal failure. Recently, I have found something new. Come four pm in the late afternoon, if I go get my coffee and get a tich lucky, I am able to write again with full force and flurry. This is an all new experience, so maybe today is not lost. I will bide my time and wait for afternoon. I will spend the day spinning thoughts in my head, hoping to get something onto the page. I am not letting me guard down about 4 pm. It has happened a few times so I surely can’t depend.
Today I must use my unbridled voice. It will have to wait for later, if I even have a chance. I need to write specifically about the maniac’s hours, I am in love, in lust, I crave both the time and the coinciding feelings oh so bad. Its the walk to the store in the quiet of the morn, its the tincture of coffee I so carefully make. It is that hallowed walk back home, as I walk in drenched anticipation for what is right in front of me. Getting in the house, I unleash Julia Bleu. She knows the routine and bounds into the study. I hang up my coat and put my wallet away; the desk the computer are pulling me in. I sit down at last, take a sip of my coffee, Julia Bleu jumps up on my lap and then it begins: for a few hours I AM A WRITER. Yes, terrible, a pure moron at prose. However, during the illusion of the hours, I am granted a ticket to dream and so I do. I read people’s blogs, and I begin to start mine. Nothing, no nothing feels better than that. I write, I read some more, perhaps I scratch what I was writing. No matter what I AM A WRITER at this point.
As the daybreak arrives, I have mixed emotions. Happy for the day ahead, but sad to see my maniac’s hours turn into to dawn. I am done, it is finished, the coffee no more. I try to finish my blog I will post. I struggle to complete it, as it isn’t the same. However now I might just have found another special hour. It is lacking a name to give it real life. What to call it escapes me right now. I will think about it as I meander through my day. Hopefully to return at 4 pm, with coffee and pug. I will take my seat by the window to the world, and call upon the forces making this possible for me.
I leave you now, unfulfilled yet hopeful. If I craft a name for those hours I will certainly be happy. Without a name they haven’t much life, without any life they are not yet real to me. I will brainstorm, sit quiet, whatever it takes. I am planning my day at this epic chance of recovery. See you soon, later on with much to share. My only wish is a name to importantly bear……..
BORN THIS WAY-2016