The days: My days

Writing can lead you to somewhere else.

Somewhere there is only you and you but no, you aren’t feeling alone or anything close to being bored. 

Whatever is on your mind, you link them up like a long long polypeptide chain, alternating them, squeezing them, shaping them, and you form them into a piece of yours, like a protein. 

Sometimes people don’t understand and you don’t expect them to. 

About how your mind will get wild and hyper like some 3-year-old galloping down the stairs and you can’t sleep even though your eyelids are shut tightly closed.  Because the excitement swirls in you, they are like the atoms stirring around, dancing and skipping from here to there from your kidney to your liver to your stomach and some, they come down from the cerebellum and roll across your spinal cord in the vertebrates and run to the front where your lungs are. And you have the urge to pour something out, from you. It is like the hot lava that is about to burst out of the volcano. 

And probably the next day or the day after the next, it all goes away, varnishing into air into tiny invisible droplets, as if it didn’t make an ardent entrance yesterday or the day before yesterday. 

There are days you will be lacking, like an empty can, you can’t put things around your head, your system is still running but no, you don’t feel like writing today. You lose your patience flipping one page after another, scanning through the words on the books, one after another. Someday you can spend hours reading books thick like some dictionaries, but someday you can hardly do so, and 

these are the days.