My head feels empty and full at the same time.
Constipated. That’s what Jeremy called it. (When you’re in the septic business…) Stopped up and clogged up. Unable to empty. Uncomfortable and can’t find relief.
There are so many thoughts and so many ideas. But they are all fragmented and incomplete.
When I sit to try to flesh one of them out, nothing comes. So I move to another one, which stays stuck as well.
They float around, crashing against each other like space debris. Bumper cars. Aimless. Ricocheting off of my brain.
PING! There goes another one. ZOOM! It’s gone.
THWAK! One sticks for just a moment. SHLURP! It’s pulled away again by the force of the other swirling thoughts.
Distraction peeks through the door. What little focus and clarity I had is gone.
Start writing. The words are wrong. Too many wrong notes and off chords in this melody my brain is composing.
A waterfall of thoughts. Words tumbling together, trickling through and whooshing around the dam holding them back, till they fall into the pool below, all jumbled together.
Waves of distraction wash over. Productivity, if you can even call it that, comes in spurts.
Project is started, then scrapped. Dissatisfaction courses through. Frustration hits.
It feels….wrong. Just wrong.
Another thought THUDS into my brain. I grasp at it, trying to hold on and get a feel for where it wants to go, but it soon slithers its way out of my hold. In an instant, it’s beyond my reach.
Walk away. Just walk away. Give in to the distractions. Attend to the more pressing matters. Choke down the aggravation. Try again another day.
Sit down to try one mo’ ‘gain. Thoughts and stomach churning as one. Participating in an intricate dance - a frustration flamenco. An unproductive undulation. Rising and falling. Swirling and twirling. Working together then pushing apart until I fear I will fall apart at the seams.
Set it aside. Can’t concentrate on anything else, either though, with the pulse and rhythm of those thoughts tapping on my brain.
A river of salmon swimming upstream, jumping above the current then falling back below. Fighting to reach their destination. Surfacing occasionally then back under, hidden amongst the rest.
It starts to rain. Hot, fast. A storm that won’t be held back. Not words, but tears. Not the thoughts I’m looking for, but release of some sort, nonetheless. Washing away the fatigue and the frustration. Clearing the mental debris and pollution.
In the calm after the storm, the music begins again. First a few hesitant, tentative notes, growing into a simple melody.
Thoughts bloom like a flower garden. Not in neat, orderly rows, but a garden of wildflowers, tumbling over each other, creating a beautiful scene that brings joy and peace.
Sentences weaving into a complex tapestry of thoughts and concepts. Comforting and cozy and calm after the storm.
When will this torrent, this new melody, this garden, this tapestry arrive? Still waiting. Still in the pregnant pause. Still constipated and clogged. Ready for some kind of relief.
