Storm

Sometimes there are too many words, and they’re all competing for space in my head, and I can’t write them all but have to choose instead, and it’s all happening here on this page, this one chance, before they disappear in the darkness of forgetting, and I’m sad because it sounded so shockingly brilliant last night in the mists of almost-sleep, but memory steals words you know, and doesn’t give them back in the same beautiful order, and it’s appalling, and you have to write them while you see them because sometimes it’s so hard and you need to peer between the cracks to find them in the middle of the night when they’re alive.
They hide in the daylight when your head is full of unimportant things, and the phone’s ringing, and your dinner cools and gels while you’re away in the shadows chasing words with cobweb nets, and the mesh is wrong, and they all fall through, and you have to start again, and dinner is ruined, and the bloody phone again, and reality is pushy, and you’d much prefer the quiet purpleness of dreams and captured words and building stories in your head when you can catch them, and you wonder how they’ll all be rearranged and jumbled when you get to return, and if you’ll ever find the right ones again or a flake of something else instead that fits badly, and God, there’s not enough time to find them and to use them all correctly as you should because that’s the whole point and why we’re here, and it’s 4am, and another cup of tea will do, but don’t wake the whole house or they’ll all be up for munchies, and you can’t have them in the world of words when they don’t believe in the wonderful madness, or what goes on in your head, or the fabulous, mythical happiness of knowing the comfort of the storm.