The Infinite Mind

Within my little brain capsule, I hold the secrets to the universe. An understanding of everything that has, is, or will be. Inside my mind lays the key to knowing everything that will ever be known, and some things that will never be known. And this jumble of secrets and knowings and understandings pounds day after day night after night on my poor bewildered skull. Beating rhythms I can’t begin to comprehend. In my bed at night, with thousands of thoughts thinking themselves into existence, I toss and turn and wonder and dream and imagine. I imagine worlds thousands of times better than that in which I live. I imagine people a thousand times smarter than those which I know. I imagine a persona a thousand times better than mine. And the pressure builds until I can’t bear to think any longer. I can no longer contain every thought that wanders through my mind. And so my fingers itch and curl around imaginary pens as I lay there. My eyes move behind lids as I consider the feeling of paper underneath my pencil. And in a sudden burst of inspiration I scribble meaningless jumbles of thoughts and feelings onto the paper before me. Scrabbling for the right words at the right time in the right place. Putting down, for future generations, the thoughts that keep me up at night. Restlessly, constantly, scratching and scraping across napkins and notepads and copy paper. Letting the thoughts flow from my scalp to my arm to my hand to my fingers to the pen to the paper. Watching as my erratic mind flows so smoothly onto a surface, soaking in to stay for as long as possible. Feeling my face tighten in a kind of joy at such a small creation. (Easily ripped up, washed away, lost and forgotten). But my creation nonetheless. And so I write and I write and I write and I write. For what else am I supposed to do?