After Midnight

I wonder if anyone that isn't a writer would understand that sometimes I just need to write. My fingers get itchy. My mind starts whirling with amazing thoughts of all kinds of things and my pen can't move quickly enough. Or my fingers, if I'm typing.

It has to be quiet when I write. If the music is on I get distracted, start singing along. I can't sing and type. It's my chew bubble gum/walk.

I'm going to write a letter to Chrissy. She died just before Valentine's Day and I never got to say all the things I wanted to. I should have said them years ago and didn't because...I thought I'd always be able to. It will be one of the pieces in my book, next to a picture of the ocean.

I want a picture of my dad's hands. A million stories can come from one line in his skin. An untapped source.

The door of the barn half in shadows. That will be another inspiration.  The door looked as though it led to secrets and it was the first picture I took where I remember seeing more than just what the camera had caught.

It's late but my windows are still open and I just heard a homeless person push a shopping cart down the street. It echoed off the church walls and I heard it here, in my office and knew exactly what it was. 

A boy from the dating site wants me to text him. Not call him, text him because he's playing a game on his xbox and it's easier than email. Wow.

I'm eating little red licorice scottie dogs and listening to the Cranberries. I should be in a kilt.

I get to break my fast with a friend tomorrow morning. I'm going to say more Game of Throne-y things like 'break my fast' and 'winter is coming' and calling people bastards. All in an English accent.

I sometimes wish I didn't care at all. Then my period starts and I like my compassion again.

'They' always say that you come to a time in your life when you just don't care what others think about you and that you feel more comfortable in your skin. I thought I had it before. I have it now.  I figured out how to be nice and not get shat upon. Turned out to be a little more difficult than just wanting to.

"Let it Be" reminds of a guy I thought I loved. If I can find the right picture, I think I'd like to write about him.

It was still yesterday when I started writing this. But I had to. You understand, don't you?