elemental.

I'll be honest when I say that my second week of writing has passed by entirely uninspired. Translation: I have written nothing worth while. I know it should be an accomplishment to touch pen to paper, but I am also the type to get overly frustrated when the images and feelings in my mind do not translate properly. It could be one word off, there could be one particular verb or adjective that isn't correct, and it would be the warped wood in my foundation. It all comes crashing down.

Instead, I decided to share a little of something I wrote a little bit ago. It's not anything in particular, just a scene that I had in my head. I did my best to focus, to take my time, and really bring out the little things. This passage is all about the details.

The simple plink-plunking resonation of raindrops on the gutters was the only sound that held my attention. I had to keep very still, so the rustle of my hair against the cotton pillowcase wouldn’t overpower the balancing tones outside my window. My respiratory system had already presented a challenge and I tried to control it; inhaling with the plinks, exhaling with the plunks. My eyes fluttered shut, growing weary of staring at the same asymmetrical splotch on my ceiling, a residual stain from a previous leak in the attic above my bedroom. It was easier to listen with my eyes closed.

Taking away a sensory distraction, I could now differentiate between the water hitting the gutter itself, and the rain falling into the standing liquid that rushed down the pipes. Now, the drops were plinking, plunking and plopping. The rhythm in my mind changed entirely with this new addition; I was now musing the sounds in 3:4 time, rather than the traditional 4:4 of which I usually thought. What a different this change made! By simply submitting to darkness, my evening had gone from a predictable, steady rock ballad to an intriguing, elegant waltz.

The only problem with this alteration was that I seemed unable to breathe in 3:4 time. I shifted my focus to the downbeat, the “one” in a triplet of “one-two-three, one-two-three,” breathing in and out consequentially. This took some getting used to, but allowing my mind to concentrate on something so simple, something so basic to me as breathing in time, was freeing. It was bliss, this waltz; my mind settled with ease to the graceful, calming sway.

My body shook to life with an involuntary twitch of my left foot, throwing my rhythm off, and allowing a stumble in my otherwise untarnished mind-dance. My eyes blinked open, feeling an undeniable change in my physical space, and the plopping sounds disappeared. One body spasm and the entire song had changed again, if not ceasing completely. I moved my un-calloused hands up to my forehead, resting them along my hairline and my elbows pointed in a parallel fashion up towards the ceiling. The stain was still there, even more ugly and distracting as it had been previously.

A small, defeated sigh crept out through my softly parted lips, as gravity pulled my elbows back down towards the bed, causing me to roll over on my side. I pulled my knees up closer to my chest, and tucked my right arm underneath the pillow. As my hand traced cool sheets underneath, I concentrated on the smell of the freshly washed linens. The scent was light and airy, a complete contrast to the atmosphere just outside. A fabric softener labeled 'Summer Breeze' or something like that, a tasteless joke for the dead of winter.

I tried with absolute desperation to find my waltz again. However, the rain had shifted, the wind picking up and moving it against the roof, and my harmony was lost. It shattered against the shingles in cut time now, racing against my irregular, uncertain breathing. The noise was too fast now, too sharp. My soothing plink-plunks had rasp and haste about them, causing the uneasy sensation and anxiety to well up in my stomach, coursing tension through my veins. Squeezing my eyes shut, I gave a last ditch attempt to find my calm, but it was long gone now. Wind lashed against my windowpanes, and my mind struggled against the negative inclinations presented by this deluge.

I was not ready to think again. I was not ready to wrap my mind around the lack of direction, the vast nothingness that my life had catapulted into. I couldn’t imagine how to even begin finding a new path, not after the one I had been so steadfast on simply vanished from right under my feet. No, I was not prepared for this at all. Still, it seemed even the elements knew that it was time to face up to where I was now; no longer allowing me to hide, bemused in a waltzing façade. The rain cracked against the window, and my dance had turned into a march. The prevailing issue with this was that my steps had no destination, and an indefinite march was a dreadful notion.