I used to write about what excited me and so I would write a lot. I write my best when I want to be a part of something. Maybe it's just a problem of framing. Somehow the regularity of life was still complicated enough to keep me interested. I guess I write about what has been or what will be. It's hardly ever in-the-moment. Yet waking today and being unable to get back to bed, I feel an emptiness like something has been drained out of me. Evaporated like a dream exposed to the morning light. Something passed into forgetfulness while I slept. Fully absorbed into the abyss of subconscious, not like falling but a kind of digestion. I already feel so many things rise up to claim that vacant reservoir. Like the mind can't abide tasteless air. Yet there is a certain calm, like I know what I have to do. A clarity as if the whirlpool of my thoughts have suddenly settled and I can see straight to the bottom of the waterbed. These times are rare but have become more common as of late. I want to go out for a run. I think I'll do that.