Slow Days

The rainy days seemed to pass in slow motion. Gazing through the window, slightly fogged from the heat inside versus the colder exterior.

God to be able to dance in the rain- But you get sick from a breeze

Huffing, she turns and makes her way to the couch. A little hideaway all her own, for the time being. She wraps a blanket over her head, tucks her legs under herself, and leans into her seat. The tray on the ottoman in front of her held a steaming cup of coffee, a half-eaten breakfast - It was an hour past lunchtime now- an open notebook and a pencil pouch.

She pulled her laptop onto her lap, attempting to get her mind focused, get in the zone. The pitter-patter of the rain outside and the music streaming in softly through her earbud.

Staring at the blinking cursor, she debates what it'll be today- a poem, a story, or just plotting. She goes back, scrolling through her old outlines, grabbing the notebook in front of her, and flipping it open to a scribbled-on page. Scanning for something to catch her eye.

In the background, there's the soft lull of music, as well as the tv playing a show she's seen already. Not being able to stand the quiet- drives her crazy, it could drive her up the walls if not for gravity.

Eventually, after 30 minutes she gives up, feeling slightly defeated and frustrated. Slumping back into the couch she tosses the computer onto the cushion next to her before getting up and discarding her breakfast. She stalls in the doorway between her kitchen and her common room, thinking of what she could do. The beat of the music in her ear slowly getting to her as it transitions to her favorite song.

She breaks out into a little dance, appreciating the limited number of windows in her home. Softly she begins to sing along to the song playing in her ear.

A line in the song hits her- sparking the ember in her chest and immediately she has an oh shit moment. Sliding over to her notebook she quickly jots down the idea, waiting to see if blooms any further. Over the course of the next few songs, lines from the chorus and the bridge feed into her spark- feeding the blossom.

Eventually moving over to her laptop, sitting back into her spot- plotting down what the lines had given her. As she wrote it was like the world around her melted- faded into obscurity. The tv- even the music she was listening no longer mattered to her. She couldn't hear it. She dove through a hole, slowly painting a vivid picture- meeting her characters, and walking the lands they always lived in since birth.

Pausing every now and then to go over her scattered chicken scratch.

She knew the synchronicity wouldn't last- she could tangibly feel, taste even- the ebb and flow of her heart, her soul, her mind working in tandem. On off days if she wrote- and came back to read it, it was all over the page without needing a second pair of eyes she knew something was off. But, days like this- when everything worked together, flowed like a rushing river- the words flowed absolutely peacefully.

When she was left alone- to ponder in her own noise, dig through the pile of words that congealed into a slew of madness. She could produce beautiful soliloquies tangential to that of the hushed singing in the foreground of her mind. All she needed was some rain, coffee, her writing setup, and her little whispers of noise.