Lying there, in the dark, my mind arace
with thousands of thoughts and feelings lacing their way through my
mind at a thousand thoughts per second, my hand alighted upon my bare
hip—my thin top having ridden up a bit from constant shifting.
This, I thought, this is one of those lovely poses they find you in
after you've been shot. The detectives come in and snap photos of the
scene, lamenting in a matter of fact way about the loss of another
life. The news reports trickle in at 10 or 11 o'clock, and they
mention something about the loss of this “promising young writer
who had a passion for art and animals.” I stop in my musings—I'm
promising. Egotistical as it
may be, that's the biggest compliment I could receive from someone
regarding my future profession. Promising.
The word rings in my mind like a dainty silver bell. Beautiful,
small, promising in its own right.
"I have
to write this down," she says to herself. "I have to write this down,
I'm promising, after all."
She runs the lines
several times through her head, then reluctantly clicks on the
bedside lamp—half afraid of the sudden burst of light scattering
her thoughts and chasing away the sudden inspiration. Only after
convincing herself of the danger of her cluttered floor does she give
in.
She rushes
downstairs, smoothly, in that ridiculous way she has when she's
trying to hold a piece of work in her mind, as though the slightest
jostling or wrong movement could shake it out of grasp, eternally
lost in the cavern of her mind. She fumbles slightly in the dark,
still new to this home. Her fingers gently come in contact with the
hard, cool plastic of her laptop. She tucks it under her arm and
jumps idly up the stairs to dump her thoughts onto paper and out of
her mind.