Fishbowl Mind

Sometimes I think that if I were a character of myth, I would be a muse. My head is constantly filled with ideas. Ideas that someone should do. Anyone. Doesn't have to be me. They swim around my brain, like brightly colored fish, flashing brilliantly in the light of ingenuity, and then darting back into the shadows to lurk. I wish I had time to do them all. To invent everything I've thought of. All the crafts, the bits and pieces. Sometimes I do a few of them. Sometimes I start something, and another brightly colored fish catches my attention, leaving the other thing behind unfinished. Sometimes I simply don't have the time or the skills to be able to pull off my grand schemes.

It makes me feel like my head is an overstuffed library. Filled with half finished books piled up in hallways, over flowing from shelves, and notes from pages floating around freely. Footsteps muffled by paper, and voices that are screaming to be found among the lost stacks. Ideas for novels, for poems, crafts, art, jewelry, inventions; things I want to say, things I forget about till several years later.

If I were a muse than maybe my head wouldn't feel so haphazard. I could whisper my ideas into the minds of those who have the time and skill to finish them; to care for them lovingly. Seeing my ideas brought into fruition by masters would be enough thanks for me. To see all my ideas become real.

But I am only mortal. I can not whisper, unseen, into the ears of masters. I do my best to fulfill what ideas I can. And I watch all the brightly colored fish, flitting about so temptingly, just as longingly as a mischievous cat. Wishing I could catch them all between my paws.

Circuitous

Spring seems to have jumped upon us rather quickly this year. In all of her vigor to bloom, she seems to have rushed Old Man Winter and chased him off rather thoroughly. But I know that Winter is far to devious to allow Spring that much leeway. He is waiting. Waiting for the right moment to jump us with another week of bitter cold. But for now, I enjoy Spring's folly. Before to long Summer will come, and the cycle continues on. And on. Like the rest of life. Beginning and ending. Continuously chasing it' tail around and around. We see change and new-ness, but in reality, everything is part of the same circular track. We just haven't the foresight to see it. We continue around, so proud of our circuitous route, oblivious of everything else around it. And occasionally someone strays of the track. But most often they come back. We rebel, thinking we are the first to do so. We conform again. Rise and fall. Like waves upon a beach. And there is nothing else.