Pitch black at 5 AM. The last time I woke up this early it involved feeding Finn.
I reach for the bedside journal, the one that used to be within arms distance, filled with chicken scratch pencil markings, the hieroglyphics of a sleepy writer. It used to be right here, I mutter into the pillow, fingers grazing the stack of must-read books searching for its creased cover.
Wait, wait, ah dang no, not a textured book but Finn’s snout nudging to be let out.
The book is nothing special. An unlined black book with faux leather binding, something I bought at Barnes and Noble. The blank pages an ideal canvas for mind mapping at midnight.
The kitchen table!
My eyes focus in the dark as I jump out of bed and dim on the light, squinting and grabbing for the book at the same time. I need a pencil. There are plenty of Blackwings in the mason jar. I grab one and pray that it’s sharpened.
When I head back to the bed it’s still warm. My mind on the other hand is cracking open to reveal a million shards of light, and I know I have to record all these thoughts immediately to make the regeneration last.
Writing longhand has always been a stimulant. I take a deep breath and begin. My hand moves across the page louder than a vintage polygraph machine.
I’m in the flow of a new dawn.
Leave a Reply