Unedited

I’m just going to write. So often I don’t have a fully formed thought in my head so therefore I don’t even bother writing.  But the truth is that once you start writing the rest of the thoughts come. There have been so many times that I have started thinking of something brilliant, but the thought never quite fully develops, so it is never written down. So really, I think I could be the most brilliant writer perhaps ever, if I were to just write down every crazy, unfiltered, and half brilliant thought I have. It seems to me that often these thoughts come at night as I am drifting off to sleep. Every time I think a half brilliant thought (which apparently I have many) I convince myself that I will remember it in the morning. This could potentially be a self-preservation mechanism so that I actually get sleep sometimes, or that I am just lazy.  Perhaps both. I’m not even sure I have a half formed thought in my brain right now, it seems to be more like a dozen less than partially developed thoughts. The problem with this is that these thoughts don’t add up like regular fractions do.  They simply each have their own line of thought that goes down past the end of my brain like a long straight train track getting smaller and smaller in the distance. The beauty I am finding about this particular string of thoughts is that as I think them, I type them. No premeditated thinking, no filtering or polishing, just raw unaltered words streaming straight from my head down my neck into one shoulder or another and then eventually pouring out my fingers. I feel especially fond of my fingers because I painted my nails today, and every good writer should feel fond of their fingers. Back to my thoughts. There are too many to describe individually, so I’m going to describe for you, beloved reader, if my thoughts were to be put together and made into an image, it would look something like this:

A small boy, around five or six is sitting on the floor of his living room next to a large blazing fire playing with all kinds of lovely toys.  Blocks of every shape size and color are currently taking all of his attention. These are not just normal blocks, but fantastic blocks made of every color of the rainbow (plus some) all sorts of textures and every beautiful and wonderful thing a child’s mind could imagine (these are things we adults have forgotten to remember). He is throwing the blocks high into the air, and every time they land, the blocks form together of their own accord and create a different picture or statue or thing.  The blocks fly high into the hair and come spinning down in to the shape of a boat rocking on the open sea.  Next the boy flings them high and they come crashing down into a magnificent oak tree, and after that a small treasure chest filled with wonder and mystery.  Over and over colors and shapes soar through the air, and fall back to the earth and form a new thing different from the last but just as wonderful.  The little boy is overjoyed with the wonder of it all, yet even though his imagination is expanding and soaring, he never understands how the blocks work.  The marvel of it is never revealed, but this does not deplete the magnificence of self forming blocks.

I must stress, once again, that the flow of words and thoughts are simply going unhindered from my brain to my keyboard.  This could turn out to be an amazing experience for both reader and writer alike, or it could leave us both pondering what exactly I meant by all my stringing along of sentences.  Truthfully, I’ll just be pleased if it still make sense in the morning.