Surprise stories

Sometimes I sit down and write. I don't think about it, I don't even really make stuff up, I just write. It's like there's this story or poem in my head and all I have to do is write it down. Like there's this narrator and all I have to do is put the narrative on paper. Once that's done, more often than not, I give the file some redundant name and close it, because I'll usually be late for whatever I should've been doing in the time that I just spend typing out this story or poem. Then I forget about it.

You read that correctly: I forget about it. Once in a while, I have this thing where I click random files in my writing or poetry folder and just read and let myself be surprised. I'll often have only the vaguest recollection of writing it. It's undoubtedly mine. My style of writing, my signature, my particular brand of spelling errors. More often than not, it's even pretty good. But it's like it was in my head, needed out and once it was out it was done and okay to forget about. All these forgotten stories and poems have three hallmarks:

1. They are all first person and, stemming from that, usually flow of consciousness writing. When I consciously write, I always write third person.
2. They all have a certain flow in the writing that is nearly lyrical, even the prose.
3. They don't cover my usual subject matter

So does anyone else recognize this? Is this what people talk about when they talk about muses or 'divine inspiration'? Or am I just bonkers and dramatizing something that's really normal? Just curious.

Gonna kick some butt. Now just to make sure it's the butt of the project plan I need to write and not, by some incredible gymnastic feat, my own.

(Though the gymnastic feat seems increasingly more likely the longer I try and stare this plan down...)

Read a book before you go to bed, they said. Just a quarter of an hour, they said. It's a good way to unwind before sleeping, they said. Five hours, half a book, lots of adrenaline and several life altering experiences later I come up for air and realize they are idiots. Idiots who have, apparently, never read a good book. Also, that I'll have to get up in four hours.

Perfection

We dromen enkel nog de grootste dromen,
Verslaan ieder monster op ons pad,
Beklimmen alle bergen die we tegenkomen,
Tot we ze allemaal hebben gehad.

En dan, zonder ooit te rusten,
Zoeken we nog hogere hoogten op.
Bevaren we nog verdere verten en exotischer kusten,
Nimmer stap op of draf, altijd in gallop.

Pas wanneer we alle geheimen weten,
En iedere uitdaging overwonnen is,
Laten we onszelf stoppen ons te meten
Aan de utopie die perfectie is.

~*~

We only dream the largest dreams,
Beat every monster to cross our path,
Climb every mountain until it seems,
We've had all there is to be had.

And then, without ever resting,
We go out and take on some higher height,
Find deeper waters that need testing,
Never slowing down, always speed of light.

Only when there is no more secret left to be discovered,
When we've conquered every challenge, beaten our own reflection,
We allow ourselves to stop measuring up,
To the utopia that is perfection.

Create your own sunshine,
So the dark won't catch up too soon,
But also don't forget:
In the dark awaits the moon.

And then, when you look up from your book and slowly realize that it is done and there is no more, you mourn. You mourn for the book and its people and the person you were, because in the course of the book you have changed and can never be that person that picked up that book ever again. You wonder how you'll ever deal. And so you go, find the next book and loose yourself all over again.

This might not be the most fulfilling job, nor the most meaningful, but sometimes you get to really help someone and bring a smile back to their faces. Those are the moment that make all the bloody idiots worth it.