Flights of Fancy

I walk outside. A branch droops—more than yesterday. 

I start the car. The radio was left on. I Drive. The wheel lightly tugs to the right.

At the deli my sandwich was made and a song was sung along to a tune on the radio. 

I'm back home. I sit. I think. The branch drooping, the radio on and the song that was sung and what came but a brief glimmer of inspiration—I fervently write.

Time stopped or didn’t exist. I didn’t know which. I held back and strategically attacked. At first, ideas were friends. As I befriended each, their hostage would not be short. For, after their time as a prisoner of war, they were let go. Over time some things are no longer useful for war or friendship.

I felt time start again; many days and hours had passed. I hadn’t slept; still high on my creative flight. I wrestle desperately with sleep; thoughts still racing and finally asleep—dreams lucid. 

I wake and repeat.