Night Writer

I’ve always been a late night writer.  I’m often too busy during the day, and it’s not until after most loose ends are finally tied up, that I can finally relax.  And, much like dreaming, it’s when I can finally process the day, choose to keep the memories that I want, and allow the insignificant tangles to wash away.

And, as the waves recede back into the sea, there are always stellar remains on the beach of our lives that are worth collecting, and keeping.  They are always insignificant to others.  Like a shell collection, that is trash to most, but sacred to yourself

Perhaps that’s why I have trouble sleeping most nights.  I’m not sure dreams complete the process for me.  Writing is what helps me tease out what’s important in life.  And I’m pretty sure that’s why I’ve been having lucid dreams lately.  Even asleep, I’m trying to wake up.

When the things we keep are simple pictures of the snow, in A January Winter in New Jersey, they mean something to me, though they might like appear to be pictures that are snapshots of the mundane nothingness.

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