When no one is looking

Sliding into my shoes at 7 a.m. There was a time when my day was half over by then. But now even the thought of that is terrifying. 7:30 some mornings, and even that is hard. Trying to stay warm and tight. Inside my quiet mind. The island of me the way I’d live forever if I could.

Because once I’m up it all fades. Just another commuter without a pen. No way to capture life as it goes whirring by. Jotting down mental notes on the back of my hand, but they’ll be gone by the time I get there. My life story unfolds too quickly and suddenly I’m beginning a new day the same way yesterday ended. With too much to do and time so fleeting. Monotony consuming all the oxygen in the room until I fear I may really die this time. Closing my eyes. Drifting into a world of black and white. That awaiting train wreck of imagination pushes my hand towards the paper. Patiently waiting dreams become my reality as routine takes a back seat and buckles up.

Yes, once upon a time there was a girl and she worked hard for a living, but when no one was looking, she could turn paper into a garden and her pen would plant all sorts of seeds. Stories and tales that would grow and bloom and take her away. Like Jack and that mighty beanstalk. A way out. A way up. To somewhere else. To anywhere, but here.