Cumulonimbus

It’s felt a little strange sharing my space with Forrest this last week. I guess that’s not surprising when I spend so much time alone here. We’re both trying hard not to regress, me into the traditional father role, he into the role of son. So far, so good. Neither of us is inclined to be that demanding of the other.

It turned out to be a week of retreat within my writing bubble. A regular process is now beginning to emerge. Ideas sit in my unconscious for a long time, fermenting, having the effect of leaving me with a constant hangover. Recently, trying to wake up in the morning has proved even more difficult than normal. My head has been heavy after fitful nights, filled with the fragments of momentarily remembered dreams. Finally, this last week has marked the point when the distillation of those ideas completed and the words started to pour through my consciousness and via my pencil on to paper. The rest of the world went away then and there’s a rare sense of contentment to be found in that. It’s as if stories arrive from nowhere, but I know they haven’t. Whether they have any value or not is, of course, another matter. For now, I’m just happy to have delivered them into the world. That’s good enough. I’m hoping for better sleep this coming week and hope to have as much energy as I found myself with today. That would be very welcome.