I am a morning writer. I like to migrate directly from my bed to my couch, pyjama-clad, to dump my morning thoughts into my mac.
There’s something fluid about a morning mind. It’s just groggy enough to be unconcerned about the inner naysayer. It hasn’t entirely separated the events of the night from the events of the day. Dreams are still a little buoyant. Words are still a little wiggly, dancing coyly as they wait to be reined in. It’s a game, this morning prose, an exercise in letting go and urging on.
It’s a shame, then, that most mornings I stumble hazily through my morning routine of eating, washing, and dressing for a day of mundane writerlessness. I have this outside life, you see, that requires me to deposit myself at specific locations at predetermined times, despite my unwillingness to materialize in public before noon. Jobs and gym classes are interferences, staving away the freshness of the day and grounding me in socially acceptable self-censorship. By evening, the words have often wiggled away.
Unless…
Unless the day has been sufficiently interesting to bring me curious thoughts about the outer world in which I move. Then the stories fall freely onto me, and I must get home to digitize them before they fall away. These evening stories are the dangerous ones, filled with frank and funky observations about the cosmic awesomeness around me.
And so I endeavour to live a flavourful, unfettered life, and to package up the best of it for universal consumption. I invite you to do the same, and post your mindful musings here. This is a place for us to story our lives, day and night, with wanton literary abandon. Welcome to Cosmic Prose.
I like what I read. Natasha. Editing thoughts and feeling is a necessary part of life. But it might be fun to let go a bit and see what falls out. Thinking is alot more fun if someone may listen and at least confirm that were all a little crazy — of wise?
In that case, I think you’ll enjoy my next post…