Misplaced

I put down an idea somewhere, and now I can’t find it. I checked the bedroom already. I checked the living room. For heaven’s sake, I looked in the toilet bowl, but if it was there I already flushed it away. The stacks of paper on the desk and threatening to topple just as always and the books on the bookshelf lean rakishly against each other, nonchalant as they support the ones piled on top of them because I take them out and them am too lazy to put them back properly. The clothes on the floor haven’t moved for a week. The idea isn’t in any of those things. I almost remember it, almost, can very nearly taste it on my tongue. It’s no use. It’s gone. Wherever it is, maybe I’ll stumble upon it sometime in a year or two. It’ll have gotten quite dusty by then and I won’t even recognize it.

Perhaps I might have twisted it into the wires and chips in my phone or computer, pressed the buttons that spelled out the words that held my idea. If I did it’s lost in the silver tangle inside technology, because I can’t find it there either. Somewhere in cyberspace, where everything is a glowing orb or square or something that looks futuristic in a way that’s hard to picture. Somewhere there, my idea might be lurking. I won’t find it there. I absolutely just do not know where it is or what it was and it’s driving me bonkers. Really. You’d think that it would be okay, that if I plucked something from out my head it would be okay. My mind is a renewable resource. Ideas are still growing. That one was ready though, ripe and round and I was going to slice it up and let the juice drip just everywhere. It obviously wasn’t that ideas are fruit, that’s a crap idea. You see? The one idea gone is of course the best one. The ones that are left, the ones I can find, they’re mediocre ideas. The bottom of the barrel, more or less. My brain is the barrel. They get grimy down there, bent out of shape. You see me getting dragged away by my words? It’s better when there’s a good idea at the reins. Otherwise it’s just plain nonsense I’m spouting, spilling over, and it’s puddling on the floor filling up the room and we’re drowning in it. A good idea is a boat. Or a scuba suit. Something like that. A good idea means that you don’t drown, you swim, and without a good idea I’m suffocating on nonsense, flailing and splashing and I hope to God nobody can hear me because this is absolutely completely ridiculous. If you’re still following along then good on you, I’d have stopped listening to me by now. Good grief.

Anyway, I guess without an idea to write about or talk about or to sing out as loud as I can, I’m going to stop mumbling and go do something mindless to drown out the nonsense. Maybe watch TV or play one of those games on the computers that makes the sparkly dinging noises when I win. Those are nice. Annoying, but nice. Maybe tomorrow I’ll find the idea. It’ll show up eventually, right? What happens when you lose an idea? Does it wither, die, turn into a brown shriveled rotten thing and cause an odd smell but you don’t know where it’s coming from? Does it just disappear, poof, until you can only sort of make out the space where it used to be? I guess I’ll find out, won’t I, I’ll see what happens to me without that one good idea. Maybe nothing at all will happen. Yeah, that’s it. Probably nothing.

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One thought on “Misplaced

  1. The writers’ plight…

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