I'll have some coffee and a potato please

Even when I'm in need of sleep -- well, after some coffee -- I get these sentences. Ideas. Lines. Sparks of light. Then, that's it. It's no idea, really. Nothing that would changes my life. Nothing big enough to form a story around. A spark that goes back to black. I can't complain. Their fun things usually. I Keep 'em for a while. Dwell. Spill. I forget them but not before thinking about what it all means. I guess, then, that they do mean something. They are little moments that change my life. When added up. When compiled into a log, I'll have something.

When I drink the coffee my hearts starts beating faster. When I think thoughts, my heart beats. I feel it and don't think it's that normal. I worry that it's working harder than it needs to be. That I'm pumping too much blood. And don't need to be doing that. I rest and try to breathe. Slow it down. Sometimes it works. Most times I worry about it, and that usually makes my heart start beating faster. Worry waits as I consider fate. Fuck it. Fate's no fun. So I start to think about things not-yet done. And I don't know what to do. So, like the environmentalist, when you don't know what to do, do nothing. I drink coffee to sharpen my mind. It works and I once thought of my conscious like a screw. Loose, it's tired and capable of going dark -- to sleep. Tighten, I'm bright. Have insight. Can type.

I can't think of it like that anymore. Because I've counteracted. I'm loosened on purpose. Tighten just to get back to where I was. So, now, I'm thinking of it this way:

My head is a potato. Seeking a rebirth, I unearth it. It's dirty, so I hold it under cool, running water. I rub it with my hands and feel it's character. I try it off and get the peeler. I go beneath the surface, open up the pores. It's bright. The skin is off. It's clean. It's white and alive. I look in the sink and see the skins. The catcher has trapped them, not allowing them down the sink.

There's regret. There's a past and mistakes. There are episodes in my head play and rerun. There are moments that I can't take back. Words that I've spoken too soon, with too little thought. There's time wasted and wishes worried. There are dark spots and depressing thoughts. But there's this:

These things, all of them, I can mash like a potato.