As I sit in the dark, with only the dimly lit screen of my laptop bringing purpose to the room, I look out into the blackened horizon and watch the small red lights of the school bus in the distance. I like the darkness, and I have always had the innate feeling - the darkness likes me.
For some, darkness is a gloomy presence. And indeed, come mid March after weeks of sunless days, I have to agree. But right now, after having absorbed countless bright skies, and with another sun-filled day about to make its appearance, it is safe to enjoy the dark, ominous sky for the temporary visitor that it is. Like an out of town guest, here for only a few days, the ominous sky has not yet outstayed its welcome. In keeping its visits brief, we are allowed to enjoy its company with enthusiasm.
During the days of February and March, those ominous skies turn into the houseguest that decided to have its mail forwarded to our permanent address; forcing us to conclude that they plan to never leave.
However, the dark skies allow for unencumbered thoughts. That’s perhaps why I enjoy them; I enjoy writing during the night and early morning. While the space around me is black, my mind fills with color. With no objects visible to catch my eye, my inner focus grows sharp. I can transcribe the images I see within my mind easier, as there is less interference, less visual static.
It is during these times when new characters begin to speak more clearly; in doing so, telling me their story. The story they feel will prompt me to remember them, and want to explore them. These stories are the parallel lives I live with every day. If I didn’t write their stories out onto paper, it would border on lunacy. But instead, I feel as though I’m their portal into this world. For those that write from this particular systemic origin, meaning: those that write from deeply within, I would have to imagine it does, at times, feel as though a bit of insanity is at play. But it isn’t.
Imagine standing in your kitchen, your hands slide into the bread bag, you remove two slices and place them onto the counter. The television plays in the background; you see it out of the corner of your eye. It’s not loud, yet you can hear the newscaster give the rundown of the top stories. You see the images out of the corner of your eye when you choose to acknowledge them. The images turn to a colorful blur when you don’t. You ingest the stories on a surface level. All the while, your mind is moving to the low instructional voice telling you, rather robotically, what to do next. You close the bread bag, and slide it to the side before walking to the refrigerator, whispered thoughts tell you what to reach for. You question briefly if what you are reaching for is what you want for lunch, your mind flits onto a conversation you had the previous day, then flits simultaneously back onto the news story. If asked how busy you were, you would undoubtedly say you weren't busy at all – merely making a sandwich. And yet, your mind effortlessly streamed three layers of thoughts at once. Thoughts of no great value, yet thoughts just the same. All of us have the capacity to have busy minds. Granted, some busier than others.
I like paying attention to these lives I see using the peripheral vision of my mind’s eye. Maybe because they allow me to momentarily take the focus off of my reality. Or, I should say, certain aspects of my reality. We all enjoy the escape of a good book or movie – a story other than our own. Except for me, my only escape is when I write the story.
Sane
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