Where thoughts run free…
I’m back at the keyboard trying to put together a sentence. Woo-hoo! Got one! Now, where do I go from here?
Down the page, of course, keyboarding my way through a bramble of thoughts.
Ouch! I wish they’d stop needling me. Yet, they continue pushing their prickly points. Bramble! Bramble! Bramble!
She lays on the rug in the family room, old and broken, a fixture of decline. Her gaze holding onto a moment.
I’m always, sort of, almost there — Butt on the chair. Thoughts up in the air.
Focus is a temporary condition as variable as the Comcast channel lineup, which changed again.
Comcast and I have a lot in common as I shift my line of thought to the next thing, away from the “this” thing–completing a piece of work and summing up what I don’t know yet.
Up seems to be the theme, as in “up in the air” where my thoughts float searching for an anchor.
Will they land upstairs in the shower or downstairs in Dog World?
The shower equalizes me, prepares me for the real world, while in Dog World, my thoughts run free chasing tangents.
I don’t know when they’ll come home again.
Guessing is as good as it gets. It’s my specialty, along with mind travel, to escape the voices in my head. Will they ever shut up?
And we’re back to the “up” theme. But, that will change.
We’re seesawing in the improv playground of deranged spontaneity. No rubber mats here to cushion a fall or audible hecklers. Only internal voices taunting me, vying for attention.
“Hey! Hey! Pick me!” OCD Voice screams.
“Forget her! She’s boring!” ADHD Voice says while spinning around.
Instead, I focus on the keyboard in an attempt to ignore them, but it’s hard in the silence of the house–the house always wins. If I stay, I lose.
I leave in a daydream and find a time when I mingled with people, not dogs–before I joined the ranks of the underemployed.
As a member of the “too many hours in the week club,” today is a non-working day of sedentary discontent, idling without a schedule to reel in ADHD tendencies.
I embrace distractions that lead me through a parallel world where time speaks softly from a faraway place. “Come back,” she whispers, in a tick-tock way.
Of course, I ignore her and continue corralling wisps of thoughts as nebulous as clouds.
Whoops! Another thought gone. Another thought wrangled, ends up on the page.
Every day is a contest between thoughts I catch and the ones that get away.
Is there flypaper for the brain?
This inquiring mind wants to know, as I meander toward the end, wondering when the last period will leave a mark.