Only child

Mid-January, 2013

There are mornings that present ideas to me, bright sparks in the undersea of sleep, that burn impossibly into wakefulness. The sheer insistence of their being is reason enough to get up and write them down.

Other mornings, the ideas are drowning embers. I am forced into wondering what the hell it was they once held to be so remembered, what it is to have once lived as an idea then to have vanished.

Is an idea alive? I pose the question morphologically. An idea is borne of of other ideas, progenitors, whose own existence is the natural consequence of a cascade of other thoughts based on observation, conditioning, desire.

The sun is rising and I have had only this idea in my head.