Humbling.

I raced myself today. Not physically.

When I was young–high school, specifically–I often raced myself in my head. It’s altogether similar to playing indoor soccer or skydiving or, well, racing someone. My head spun. Spins. It doesn’t happen so often anymore, whether it’s due to diabetes or the death of my childhood dreams, or poverty, I don’t know.

But today it came back a little. I raced myself. I sat in my work van, in the middle of a downpour, in the middle of rush hour traffic, in the middle of some pop song, and my head simply opened up like a flower.

Pop.

Creative people know what I mean. Perhaps. I shouldn’t assume.

Poetry used to flow from that flower-bud. And action scenes full of swords and magic and violence and excitement. I used to fuel midnight runs through the forest by simply smelling that flower-scent.

It’s fun. I’ve trained myself to wander planes when I’m open like that. Usually those planes involve books I’ve worked on, written, finished. Today I went back to the Soren books I stopped writing. Book four, specifically. The opening scene, where, in the middle of New York, the world saw an angel being torn apart from the chest.

Violent, I know. In the book it begins a crusade. An outcry. A calling. Organized America immediately poisons the image, denegrates it to nothing more than religious and political propaganda, while individuals see it as something similar to a New Mecca. Many seek prophets. Many seek to debunk it (as not being dust. lol). It sparks something deeply complicated in people. It didn’t exist, surely. It was a sign of our fall from the grace of God, surely. It was Criss Angel’s greatest trick, surely. It was–science, burping. Quantum forgetfulness, divergent harmonics racing along radio waves at oscillating 2.5-6000htz. So sayeth the Tesla.

And that’s how I feel when I bloom, I guess. Inspired by something wholly unbelievable, something that can’t possibly exist, yet something I’m staring full-on, no filters attached. And by no filters, I mean I stare at the thing as if it could be anything, passing lens after lens over it, wondering, configuring.

Yet when I get home, here, staring at my computer screen, head no longer a disco ball lightningbolt, I realize it’s just a plot point, a starting point, a twist for nobody to read but me.

Humbling.