Written by: Morgan Blair, a wandering spirit and artistic mind.
The sound of coffee percolating in the morning has a strange effect on my imagination. It’s like the sound, smell, and idea of sipping the black liquid opens up my thoughts, or maybe it’s the fact that I have just gotten up and my dreams are commonly bizarre and it is not the coffee after all, but the lingering effects of my subconscious insanity. But mornings are weird. I use weird loosely as if the knot wasn’t pulled quite tight and everything was slipping left and right as if we were floating in the waves of the ocean. That’s what the coffee looks like when I raise and lower the mug to my lips, waves, waves of thoughts, waves of imagination, waves of lingering dreams still haunting my open eyelids.
I have no idea what I am saying. All I know if that I finished my fourth book this week (it is only Tuesday) and my neck is sore from the deep tissue massage I had last week. I know the candle next to my bed is too strong and is burning my nostrils and my electricity is out so my heater won’t turn on (yes, I use a heater in May). I know that my body feels too big next to my pile of stuffed animals as I lie on my bed writing and my coffee is now cold.
As my thoughts wandered this morning, I landed on the idea of DNA. I turned on a podcast to try and figure out the ins and outs of this scientific phenomenon but quickly grew bored and returned to my book of poetry. I want to understand why I am the way that I am, but I don’t want to waste the precious moments of my morning in strained boredom.
I switch between the pages of poems that leave my eye moist and my heart pounding. How can a stranger understand me so well? I turn my focus to my email, refreshing the page looking, hoping, praying to receive one acceptance email from an agent. Rejection, rejection, rejection. I have gotten three so far. I know it is common but each one stings. I don’t think the humans on the other side of this virtual communication understand just how badly I want to be a writer. Just how badly I want my story to be heard. Just how badly I want my laptop and coffee and jazz music and blank pieces of paper to become the key ingredients to a completed novel. I will work harder than anyone you have ever worked with. I want the agents to understand. But, they don’t. I am another email. Another rejection. And I become worried that being a writer is much more challenging than my imaginative coffee brain has told me.
Never give up on your dreams. Believe in yourself. You are perfect the way you are. I tape these cliches to my mirror and repeat them as I look into my eyes. Empty. These words are empty. I don’t resonate with just simplicity anymore. I am complex and weird and messed up in more ways than “never giving up” can fix. But this book and the three others I finished this week. Books understand me. The words that are beautifully constructed into sentences become such sweet solace. I am connected. Connected to whom? I don’t know. Perhaps the author or the characters or just the idea that another world exists inside another person’s brain too.
We all need time to think. We need those spaces where our minds run wild and the world becomes somewhat of an illusion. This is where ideas are born, insights are discovered, where coffee becomes medicine and not just a caffeine fix. We need to allow ourselves to not fit in, to challenge the cliches, to find other means of connection. We need to hug our crazy dreams and thank our messed up minds for thoughts that don’t make sense. We need more weird in this world. Weird is good. Loose knots are good. Waves are good. They leave room for growth and change.