I stare at the screen. The cursor blinks. Ages ago someone might have stared at a cave’s wall or papyrus sheet, blank, waiting for the signs to appear. The magical signs that would transmit the joy of a hunt, the pain of a loneliness, the thrill of a discovery. And they do. But first, the story must appear in the mind. The tools in the hands have changed, the way stories surface from the sea of mind didn’t.

Past week I slept better, the nights were warmer, and just the dreams I had were a garden full of ideas, ready to pick. This week, since Monday, the colder weather has set in again and the pace has changed too. It was more frantic this week, I was less stable, didn’t meditate as long as I wanted. My writing reflects that, had only one fresh idea this week and I did manage only to write it down in a short note so that it won’t escape.

I also didn’t manage to get to sleep earlier. I promise myself day after day that I’ll go to bed earlier and day after day, despite being tired, weary and sleepy I stay till 1- 1:30 AM. It’s a strange state, I don’t do anything serious, I’m too tired for that. But I don’t go to sleep either. Why?

Maybe one day the answer would come to the surface of my stream in the ocean of mind. Goodnight.