The late nights before I wink off to sleep is a time when my brain is the most active which ends me up sleeping two or three hours after I lie down. In the silence and darkness, there seem to be more room for more waking dreams.
I am not surprised anymore that my list of things to do (before I die) becomes longer and varies everyday. Stories and scenes and things rush in and crowd themselves inside my head (which feed the story teller in me) that it becomes a tangled patch of cloths bursting at the seams. They long to be written down, acknowledged, acted upon; in the end it remains a longing thought.
Here’s the thing, it’s the sentimentality in me perhaps that idealizes these longings which I am not sure if given relief will not make it less as it was in my eyes. Before long, I might take it for granted as have others who have acquired certain possessions or say ‘been there, done that’.
These thoughts pervade me from time to time and strangely a poem comes to mind, of Robert Frost’s Desert Places. But I will think no more of this. For now, I must sleep.