I do a lot of mental meandering, especially when I should be asleep. I even wrote a poem about it, once. Don’t panic, this is probably the only poem that will ever appear on my blog, unless someone else writes it.
There are no signposts in my head
Just vast, uncharted plains.
No dwelling places, no oases,
Merely tasks meandering,
Rising, crossing and dissolving,
Ideas revolving on themselves.
Doubts, perceptive in the mind,
Journey on to innerspace.
There are no streetlights in my head
Just deep unlighted lanes,
Dead ends for brave imagining.
Craters darkly deep
And lonely satellites of dreaming
Hurtle into orbit
Claimed by territories of sleep.
The thing is, I can think all I like, but unless I start scribing those ideas I’ll never be the writer I want to be. So I’m going to dream and think and describe and proscribe, every which way I can. I will scribe until I die.