Fragments of song

I've always thought that my mind is like a person speeding along the highway, flicking through the stations on the radio dial, barely giving any song a chance, listening to only fragments of song, a hearty laugh, an all-out guitar solo or heated political discussion. Each station flicking by underneath his fingers is just enough to register with him, and he either rejects it or settles back into his seat, listening to whatever he's dubbed as acceptable.

So, you ask, how does this relate back to my mind in any way? Well, let me put it this way. A couple of nights ago I had just pulled the sheets tight around me, sealing out the nighttime chill of my bedroom when a fragment of a song entered my mind. It, of course, was heedless of the hour, or the fact that I would be more than a little reluctant to rouse myself from bed to transfer it from a wispy thought in my mind to solid, sloppy-cursive like words onto paper. But it was the fear of forgetting it in the morning, and only able to grasp a few words, versus a full refrain or chorus that propelled me from my bed. It is interesting that such a minuscule, disjointed thought would be enough to reel in my ancient ship from the calm, crystalline waters of my dreams like a gentle but persistent tide pushing it backwards.

Why, I have always wondered, do such things come to be in the nightly hours? Now, not to worry, I won't go all paranormal on you, or however you want to phrase it, but I've noticed that's how it has always been with me. A while back I even put the thought to paper and wrote a poem about how I seem to hit a particularly sweet spot for writing around midnight or either close to it or after. Is it the fact that while the rest of the world slumbers, my mind is awake and dashing gleefully over that never-ending literary field, giggling wildly at the free, darkly cloaked space, at the lack of a probing sun but an indifferent moon to take its place? Whatever the reason, I am grateful for these fragments of song, for they can be like a single glass doorknob lying amongst the charred or gutted ruins of an antique Victorian taken by fire or storm. The bigger piece may be missing, and some may dismiss it, but I and others who care to grasp the doorknob see something valuable. That doorknob is a starting point, a single thread left upon the intricate quilt it had once been a part of.

After all, all I need to start a short story, or for a poem to blossom in my mind is a single glimpse of an old house alongside a highway, or nestled amongst historical storefronts or standing alone amidst a humble clearing of a forest. Perhaps I am granted these fragments of song because my mind realizes that my imagination needs only such a small amount, for it will do the rest.

And in the case of that proverbial radio dial, I will forever continue to search the dial, for there is always something to learn, something to grasp, something to build into a work bigger than myself. May all my fellow writer's and artists out there continue to search the dial as well.