I honestly cannot remember the last time I woke up this early to do anything except feed the cat.
Eyes wide open, the sky still dark. It’s 5 AM, and my mind is on fire. In a good way. I reach for the bedside journal, the one that used to be within arms distance, filled with chicken scratch pencil markings, the hieroglyphics of a writer with big-ish ideas. It used to be right here, I mutter into the pillow, fingers grazing the stack of must-read books searching for its creased cover.
Wait, wait, ah dang no, not a textured book but Finn’s snout nudging to be let out. The book is nothing special. An unlined black book with faux leather binding, something I bought at Barnes and Noble. Who knows when. The sketchbook pages are an ideal canvas for free from mind mapping at midnight.
My eyes focus in the dark. The kitchen table! I jump out of bed, over the litter box to dim on the light, squinting and grabbing for the book at the same time.
Oh crap, I need a pencil. I have plenty of Palomino Blackwings limited editions. So, I grab one from the mason jar and pray that it’s sharpened. Then, I head back to bed where it’s warm (remember, it’s 5 AM).
I feel like my mind has cracked open to reveal a million shards of light. I know I have to record all these thoughts immediately to make the regeneration last. Writing longhand has always been a stimulant. I take a deep breath and begin. My hand moves across the page ambiently louder than a vintage polygraph machine.
I’m in the flow of a new dawn, and it feels good.