As the last painstakingly crafted phrase comes to a flourishing conclusion, you marvel at the symphony of syllables YOU created; how they seem to dance across the page until stopping beautifully at that mahogany bookend of a period- like a marching band that arrives at their final formation in perfect unison, striking a pose and hitting the final chord as they spell out "perfection."
And as you go to congratulate the feather-adorned cymbal player dotting the "i," you only then realize the insurmountable task you've set yourself:
Now that next phrase feels lightyears away
Across a void of thick white tundra
It is an infinity that mocks you by paradoxically existing within a finite plane of 8'1/2 x 11'' paper...
Your Stream of Consciousness Spaceship carrier your most precious cargo:
Your Genius-but-yet-to-be-articulated-just-calm-down-I’m-getting-to-it-mom-it’s-not-about-the-book-you’re-writing-it’s-about-the-book-that-book-leads-you-to-at-least-that’s-what-they-said-at-the-seminar-jesus-who-am-I-kidding-I-should-go-into-finance-I’m-hungry-let’s-make-us-some-lunch- seed of a thought.
It is clearly not ready for the journey from the period of the last sentence to the mystery of what lies ahead.
The crew is low on food
Morale is teetering:
“We didn't think it'd take this long”
“Houston, we have a problem”
“The captain has been abusing the hyper sleep function”
The crew wonders what they'll do:
"Let's eat Mike first"
"He had the last tube of Mac n’ Cheese"
"Screw that guy"
"This is getting out of hand"
"We all new this might happen."
"Let's not kid ourselves."
"Hold him down."
Meanwhile across the ravine of white infinite nothingness,
Way out in the distance,
Lies the capital letter of another sentence's beginning,
Your seemingly unreachable destination.
And years later,
A now nearly unrecognizable and almost catastrophically battered Stream-of-Consciousness Spaceship, teeming with the cannibal children of a long forgotten generation of cosmonauts, and carrying with it
An Entirely New Idea,
At a beautiful