Paralysis

Am I seeking perfection? I know better. And yet here I sit. Well past my bedtime. Any actual hopes of getting to the gym long since shot. And even still, as I sit here in my bed, the soft covers draping over me, listening to the train whistle howl in the distance as a middle-aged house creaks for no other reason than it's a house and it's after 2:00 a.m. in flyover country and the only real sound wafting about is my typing in run-on sentences.

And thinking in flashes... the synapses are firing at will tonight. They've been doing that more and more lately. The cacophony in my brain is fierce and finding my way through the din isn't something I'm enjoying. Random thoughts. Feelings. The cool --

-- I'll get to it. But just when I thought I was going insomniac on myself, I'm drifting and violently falling into and out of the dreamscape in my subconcious. One of my nameless friends (she has a name, but I can't think of a good blog-moniker for her and thus the nameless) ia pulling double duty as a spy tonight. I saw her just now in a car, under a hail of gunfire... I was there... we were fine. Irish music was playing in a beautiful reel, and we were about to relocate our position to something a little less hairy. And then I was here.

And now I'm back to my thought from earlier. The cool contour of the glass, palmed in my hand. And the sound it would make smashing against the fireplace. The fantastic glimmer it would make across the brick as shards of it embedded themselves into the carpet. So then reason took hold and I didn't throw it.

But I wanted to. Earlier today I was quite angry with myself and I recall standing there in the family room, back to the hearth, cup in hand, like a major league pitcher ready to throw the fast ball. Just because I've never smashed a glass before. Ever. And I thought it might feel good to do it.

And at this point, I am rambling. And I'm tired. I'm dozing. And this post is crashing into sweet oblivion. I'll tell you more about the glass that survived and why I can't write and why I'm still up on a Monday morning / Sunday night when the rest of my world slumbers.

Not the only one it seems. Keaton had a good post tonight. I hope he is safe with his sword and his muse. I don't live in area nearly as frightening as he paints his. Which is good. Because my sword is very much downstairs.