Think left and think right and think low and think high. Oh, the thinks you can think up if only you try. – Dr. Seuss
The pressure builds until my hands, my body feels shaky. I lie in bed exhausted but am unable to enter the little death that replenishes because there are cymbals clashing. Cymbals clashing, echoing in my head keep me awake. Cymbal noise generated by countless ideas crashing upon themselves in the darkness, each vying for my focused attention.
If I haven’t given the ideas an avenue to evolve and escape, they build in number until they are so crowded they start morphing into each other becoming new ideas, some better, some worse, some just disappear, a love never expressed. Others cling on with the tenacity of a wolverine sinking teeth into a carcass.
Sometimes, I trap the unformed and partially formed ideas – trap them in bits of paper, trap them in my phone, trap on my computer, trap in notebooks, trap in the cloud, wrap them in little cocoons and trap them in my mind.
I wish I could sit my ass in a chair at a bustling coffee shop in another country and weave a transparent cocoon around my body enabling me to feel the energy vibrations, a cocoon where I would exist for six months. Six months of writing. At the conclusion of the six months, I would emerge with a trunk full of those vague ideas loved into butterflies.
Help each emerge from a chrysalis a fully formed, uniquely beautiful butterfly – transparent butterfly, rainbow butterfly, black butterfly, diamond butterfly, titanium butterfly, ink butterfly, water butterfly.
The thoughts not ready for freedom, I would leave wrapped up snugly in their chrysalises (chrysalides? chrysalisae?), leave them planted in the soft parts of my unconscious until circumstances are right for the ideas to ripen, ready to pupate when I put pen to paper and set their wings into emotion.
I would set the butterflies free into the world to flit through eyes into people’s minds offering each person a glimpse of beauty, of light, of darkness, of color, of invisible butterfly wings, of connection between me and reader
After six months, it will be my time to emerge from my cocoon. Will I have become a butterfly myself or will I still be a caterpillar?