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 5AM 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 bindng, something I bought at Barnes and Noble who knows when. The sketch book pages an ideal canvas for freefrom mindmapping at midnight.
My eye 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. And I have plenty of them, Palomino Blackwings limited editions. I grab one from the mason jar and pray that it’s sharpened. I head back to bed where it’s warm (remember, it’s 5AM).
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.