I write so many blog posts in my head, on my way to work. I write so many stories on a daily basis about the things that happened to me or the way I wish they would have gone. I write constantly in my mind. About the future, about the present. My plans, my goals, my thoughts, my regrets, my wishes, my feelings. The words are like dreams, I can't control them, I just float in and out of them in sort of an unconscious asleep-like state. Heavy and light all at once, warm and vivid, yet far away at the same time. It's almost 'loud' in my head when I'm writing them, and it only quiets down when I get distracted, lost in a song I play on my guitar, focused on a task at hand, a drawing, a conversation. Lost in Nicks arms and the sound of his voice, the subtle things, like chopping an onion or painting a mountain, that don't require words, that don't require the constant building of a full length feature film I'll never get to play in real life.
It doesn't bother me, that the words never get written down. They are like the dreams you swear you'll never forget but then you do without remembering you swore you'd never forget. They float away in the morning breeze and you wonder if maybe they are half way around the world by now, lighting up the minds of someone else in their sleep. So many stories I've written on 20 minute bike rides, and 40 minute lunch breaks that just, go away. Daydreaming as a kid on the bus, or a teenager on that long walk through the hall back from my locker in the west wing of that old middle school that smelled strange.
When I was in high school I'd sit outside the pizza place where I worked on the back porch. I faked a 'smoking' habit to cover up my daydream-story-telling-addiction, and I'd sit out there half smoking a camel light and take myself away to another world, the one I built in my mind, of who I was and where I was going, and what I had already done.
Often my more 'logical' self will storm into the stories and start smashing everything up. "That'll never happen in real life" or "you can't know what you're life would look like if you did that". She critiques the houses I build for structure integrity, and my business plans for profitability and accurate industry margins. She's kind of a pain in the ass, but most of the time she's right, and she always follows the critique up with, "oh, and by the way, you're 20 minutes late for work so get in the shower", and my whole self is like, "shit! I'm just a slacker, fuck, I'm never on time", and the story is forgotten, lost just like that as I hustle to pack my bag and pick out an outfit.
I do wonder though, if I had a scribe in my mind, that was constantly keeping track. Writing every word on a tiny typewriter and fileing the pages alway for a later date, just how many pages I'd have by now, just how many filing cabinets that might take. I guess there's no way to ever know, or to know if the daydreams in my head would be as vivid on paper, as they are behind my eyes. For now, I'll let them be, as they are in my mind, and maybe one day they'll come flooding back and I'll have the time to write them all down. One by one, word by word, I'll recount all the people I've been and places I've seen; all the stories I've crafted in my mind that we're real enough to last the rest of time.