The Clock is Ticking

It was completely quiet out. Just beautiful, and one of those rare moments even in my smallish town that it truly was quiet out. My mind wanders when it gets like that. Okay, that's not true, I'm A.D.D., my mind always wanders, but it gets quietly introspective at times like that. I found myself outside in the rain for a good 30 minutes. I used to do that a lot. Just let the rain wash over me, clearing my head. It wasn't a hard rain, it was just sprinkles, but it was redeeming in a big way.

A few years ago, the smallest thing sparked my imagination and would send me into a daydream, that often became a hurriedly written poem or short piece of prose, and often could be found here. And by hurriedly I mean "hurry before you lose it!" Could've been anything--the way a friend smiled at me, an unexpected flash of color, the way a word felt in my mouth. Heck, it might've just been the way the sun warmed my skin. Or that freakishly bad movie I'd watched the night before.

Somehow I got caught up in the busyness and the business of my day to day life and stopped making the leap from my head to paper. I stopped taking the time. No, not true. I took the time to put other things on paper. I've for years called myself a writer. And I am. I know the adage is that any kind of writing is still writing, even if it's not what you want to write. But honestly, when the most widely read and accepted writing I've done is the 5 steps to printing a gradebook from the computer system for my teachers, how can I possibly feel fulfilled? Especially knowing that I wrote that 4 years ago and have merely made updates as the system was upgraded.

This morning, my imagination is just whirring. Just racing. Just overwhelming me. And something inside is waking up.