Mucus, Coffee, and Day Dreaming

I laid awake most the night listening to the pounding music of the bar down the street try to drown out the noise two volunteers were making in the room next to me. It sounded as if they were wrestling while trying to kill a pig. You figure it out. I was also very sick with globs of green mucus oozing out of my nose. I was not in the greatest of moods yet I was not mad. It made no sense. I should have been fuming. Anyone else would have been at least slightly annoyed, but not me. I had come in earlier that day to meet with Solomon to look at a couple different options for internet. He was there to file an official police report for the guy in our community whom stole three hundred bucks from the artisan house. His mom went to the river to wash clothes and boom. Money gone. Their after him supposedly. I was feeling like a wet piece a horse shit and internet face time on skype with my parents and Michelle was what I needed for sure so that's what I did. It was refreshing seeing and hearing them and even though I was real sick everything seemed better for at least a little bit.

During that time using the internet I decided to down 3 cups of coffee of which I now blame for me not being able to sleep. But it was still strange. I had crashed mentally only hours before but lay awake in bed tossing and turning and switching things on and off like the tv and my phone. A couple things came up swirling around my mind during this really long night. One, I should do more writing. Two, I should do more writing that is part of something bigger. I know that when I put my mind to I can write and I can write well and I feel like I have been not using what some would call my “potential”. I started thinking to myself what I could write if I wanted to start doing it more often. I had started to write down some personal stories, of which there are many, but had grown bored with trying to put everything into a time-line as well as scared that people would start coming after me with an axe when I released it. I wasn't painting people in the greatest of lights.

So decided that I was once a great story teller and will be again. Well, I wrote a couple short stories once that people seemed to like. Well, my step brother seemed to like them. That was probably considering that as soon as I learned how to type and barely old enough to make anything coherent, I wrote a story about a bunch of kids falling into a well and then trying to escape. One by one each one died a terrible and graphic death until eventually at the end we find out it is all a dream. Until the main character actually dies in real life and the story ends. Real nice huh? Ya, my step brother really liked that one but I think it might show a little bit of disturbing behavior. Not sure why my teachers didn't pull me out of class and lock me in a room just to make sure I wasn't going to bring a meat cleaver to school. I guess it was the early nineties.

So I laid awake thinking to myself “I'm going to write great stories again”. I'm going to write a story about a boy who goes to a foreign land and runs through the jungle with special tiger shoes and barely misses branches as he jumps from one rock to the next and then comes to a clearing where he almost falls off a 1000 foot cliff and is saved by his great tiger claw grip shoes. That's what I'm going to do. I thought about how great this story was going to be. How the plot was going to be this kid learning this great lesson in life and how he was going to open up some magic door within time and space and find the answer to everything old and magical within the confines of this small jungle village of a people trapped in time. Yes folks. I was dreaming. I was just still awake.

I woke up with about 3 hours of sleep under my belt and with one of the suspected pig killing culprits knocking at my door to use the hot water in my shower. I stumbled across the street and got some coffee. I was going to need some time to recover from my mucus, coffee, and day dreaming hangover.