Soft and thick like flash-cooled caramel, my thoughts creep along in slow motion, their hard edges dragged around obstacles that get in their way by the more pliable core within. Thinking is, at times, an exercise in patience. When the mind slows to a crawl, despite external stimuli and internal urging, the best course of action is inaction.
And, so, I watch my fingers tap on the keyboard, forming words and phrases that indisputably belong to the English language, yet do not belong in the same room with literature. What is literature, though? Literature is writing worthy of being remembered. That’s one definition. This morning, the definition does not apply to the words spilling from my fingers.
Yet, some days I cannot seem to stop the flow of ideas, ideas I find aesthetically and intellectually pleasing. Those are the days when my thoughts have warmed to the extent they are almost liquid. Their sheer volume washes obstacles out of the way in a torrent of impossible strength.
After the torrent, though, comes the clean-up. Picking through the pools to find something, anything, of value; anything to help remember the beauty of the landscape before the flood.