beyond the type

in the dark

strange things follow, words disappear as soon as they are typed, and loved ones turn to monsters. An open Word document torments, that damn blinking cursor, relentless. It's hypnotic. You can almost hear it. For each blink, one word: you. can't. write. don't. even. try. You stumble around in the halflight of your house, lights off, blinds closed. Going outside won't even cross your mind. The muscles in your neck, jaw, and head, are tense, painful. That bottle of Tylenol is always close at hand. Alone at your kitchen table, the green numbers of the stove clock catch your eye. Those two flashing dots in between. It's too quiet: you. can't. right. this. You don't even try - there is truth

in the light

your mind runs ahead, there is meaning beyond the type, and loved ones love. Words flow, and you feel so good, so alive, that you know you can do anything. Why sit at a keyboard typing when all of this creativity is flowing? Why not write a song instead? Why sit messing with chord progressions and scales when all of this creativity is flowing? Why not paint a picture instead? Words flow, music flows, and paint flows. You feel so good, so alive, that you know you can do anything - so you wind up doing nothing. After the storm, the sun comes out, the dam breaks, and a tidal wave of ideas comes rushing, flooding, drowning, destroying, leaving you washed up on the shore battered, broken, and

in the dark