2 am: a sketch

the rain upstairs sounds like popcorn kernels popping in the microwave.

the rain in the basement sounds like the gentle sloppiness of a toad plodding his wet way through muddy gravel.

~ ~ ~

it’s 2 am and you’ve been avoiding it for several hours now. you’ve been watching singing videos instead, because you like to sing, but you’re terrible at it. and imperfection is something that itches deep inside.

you’ve been avoiding it, yet you know that it‘ll keep its hand firmly on your shoulder until you allow it to lead you over to your desk and into your gold-and-blue swiveling chair. it won’t let you have peace until you open wordpress and click the evasive “+” button and confront a blank page. then it‘ll leave you alone, because it knows that you won’t leave that chair until the blankness has been filled. besides, you already have a title. you thought of it when you crept upstairs at 2 am to sweep the kitchen because you had forgotten to do so after night prayers. and of course, the guilt, guilt, guilt.

because, how dare you forget?

how dare you forget about the little tilt of the puppy’s head as you crept upstairs? he was lying half-asleep on the living room rug because you had forgotten to put him to bed, and when you opened the basement door his little eyes crinkled open, half-wondering, half-blissful. yours is a face he loves more than he loves himself, and the simplicity and unconditional surrender of this small creature caused you to scoop him up and rub his tummy and cradle him in your arm as you locked up all the doors. how dare you forget him, with the pink fur around his ears from when the little boys dumped chalk all over him on Easter Sunday?

how dare you forget the hour when two of your sisters were in your room and you had to skip almost every song in your playlist because they didn’t know good music when they heard it? you insisted that they must listen until at least the chorus, and then they could play something more exciting. and you wished for a minute that there was someone who could dance awkwardly with you on the floor to the songs that you love, the ones with the strange titles. but at least your sisters listened through level of concern; they claim that it’s the only twenty one pilots song they like.

but – how dare you forget that your mother made split pea soup today? you had been waiting three years to taste it again – you never forgot the last time she made it the morning after Thanksgiving. yet today she made it again and it’s already slipping your mind.

the hand is back on your shoulder, pushing you painfully into your chair. it won’t let you off this time – because – how dare you forget that your brother shaved the sides of his head today? it looked absolutely terrible and now you feel a little bit guilty about telling him that. perhaps you shouldn’t have given your exact opinion, but it really did look awful-

and how could you have forgotten about the song you began writing the night before? you were trying to write something despite the fact that a string was missing on your guitar – but you figured out a soft little riff that seemed to be content just being alive-

how dare you-

-go two months without writing anything about life, when you have the ability. when you have an abundance of moments that each deserve a sentence simply because they existed.

you’re afraid to write something simple when you think that everyone expects something profound. but the hand pressing firmly on your shoulder, holding you captive in front of your laptop, is asking for nothing but words.

you’ve given it enough, now. the rain is gone, neither popcorn or wet toad being heard. the philosophical sentences that ran through your head as you swept the kitchen at 2 am were never born, and that’s alright. the pressure on your shoulder disappears and you’re left with the 692 words in front of you.

but words are enough.

“write something, yeah it might be worthless…

you’ll see purpose start to surface”

kitchen sink

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