Before the calm, comes the storm

Thoughts.

Ideas.

Epiphanies.

Little treasures each of them.

But hoard them, and they become your enemies. One who knows not the difference between friends and enemies does not deserve friends. Or enemies.

Hoard them, and they mute you. They silence you. They raise the pressure on your brain. Your mind runs around in circles.

You hold each idea, and are forever stuck in analysis paralysis:

which language should I express this in
What form should this take? Poem, prose, painting?
Where should I publish this?

Each idea that gets stuck blocks the pathway. Pretty soon the pathway is sealed shut with ideas that wanted to get out, but couldn't

Cause your expressive muscle was not strong enough. It had not yet dug the channel through which these ideas would swim through and be born onto the unsuspecting world.

The tiny sliver of a passage that existed was sufficient only for small thoughts:

what can I eat
what to do at work
what should I read

But not enough to let original thoughts through.

So there the first idea got stuck, then another one pushed against it, then another. Soon the ideas begin to loose shape and form.

Instead they become a gray blob of regret.

Coulda, woulda, shoulda.


Expression is a practice.

[from my fictional book titled "Letters to self: 101 missives of massive proportions"]