Where did all the stories go?
Have they evaporated into the air of my mind? Does that mean they’re still with me? Have they melted into the crevices of my memory? Slithered into spotless realms?
I find that searching for the subjects I deemed important has much in common with trying to remember dreams. One moment they appear to me vividly. Alive and meaningful. The next I’m awake and they’re gone. Murdered by nihilist logic. Their life inaccessible. Pushing myself to find them will push them deeper into the darkness. All I can do is sit back and relax. If my raging storm lays deep enough, they may appear to me again. Like frightened birds, looking to make peace.
And then I’m overrun with colours and themes and beauties and trees with walking roots, and they all speak to each other in a language that makes sense, so tangible and obvious, that I’d almost like to grab it. Think them. Write it all at once. The sense it makes. But they’re gone.
And yet there can be days when they present themselves in manageable quantities. Drops of life, so we may say. Little drops containing big, blue, green, purple worlds. Gateways to endlessness. Like dreamer, like dreamt.
Drip, drip, drip. And the sense is gone. Silently residing in a word I can’t remember.