Remember the silence of our thoughts where we would wait, crouched in corners with pens poised to catch them, spectral geometry flickering in the shadows as they flew across our line of sight? They appeared and disappeared like bats, to and from nowhere––and us beckoning, show yourself! Our own thoughts, retreating. The nerve. We would tame them.
We were young and eager to tie them down, to possess the authority of others who had managed to do so, somehow. Only by evading our pens could they find any haven.
Even a small one would be good, we thought––squirrel-sized, perhaps––anything from beyond the veil. If we could just catch one, we could prove ourselves successful hunters of what moved in the wilds of that other place. We could remove the skin, eat the meat, accumulate proud trophies. Others would envy what we had. But it was no good.
Rabid as we were, we didn’t see ourselves this way; we thought we were gentle. But they must have heard us, our pens poised like arrows to fly at them when they dared to run. No wonder they fled. We were starved for what we feared we would forget, but they knew it was worse than that. They knew they had already left us, and they recognized that we were in the stage of those still unwilling to accept the loss, who are willing to do anything to pretend that it is not what it is.
They would wait until the visions of trophies had left us and we were bald and frail with grief. Then they would come and sit at our feet, on our laps. We would let them build nests where our hair used to be. Okay, we’d tell them, have it your way.
I know what you mean.
I have all these wonderful ideas while dropping off to sleep.
Completely gone by the morning.
Laughing hard at this, Granny. Because I was just now puzzling over something that I scribbled when I woke up in the middle of the night, which I was quite sure was of great importance when I was moved to fumble for my pen. Now it looks like something the cat may have written : )
That is exactly what will happen to me!
This is such a clever piece of writing, Stacey. It totally sums up what it’s like to be a writer. I can really identify with the words that you’ve chosen. It’s perfect, and I so enjoyed reading it.
Then I’m in good company–– Thanks, Ellie!