She wakes at two, or two thirty in the morning when she’s sometimes late to rise. She pads heavy-footed to the kitchen for a thirst-quenching drink, unfortunately in the refrigerator there are no hidden tasty surprises. Back to bed, where she’d inadvertently knock her head on the bed head, now there’s an aching inside her noggin. She took after her father, they are careless with their heads, knocking them upon doorways, objects in their way, the pain making them surly and sour. Just yesterday, Alice had spotted a large graze on her father’s pink bald skull when they’d had coffee together. She didn’t say anything, not wanting to embarrass or hurt his feelings by drawing attention to his error visible by practically everyone, even the laughing sun.
Back to sleep, until around five, when she inevitably rises to the chirps of the birds, excitable outside her window. She sits up, smiles warmly, and sits by her bed now, at her desk, staring at the computer keyboard longingly. She knows the words will come, she trusts, now hopes they do. Perhaps she needs to commence an illustration first? She’d been experiencing a loss of inspiration lately, not knowing what to write, create, or what to say. It was frustrating to say the least, but she refused to allow this blocking to cease her from creating in this still-darkened day.
Then, it comes to her, and she begins to frantically type, getting out all the information that’s within, now viewable inside. She needs to note it down, it rushes through her mind as though on a never-ending loop, but all the words and ideas and phrases are only written once. One time, one opportunity to collect them in her own way, her style, with her own sense of fire. Lighthearted though, as her style usually is. But today the words are different, they have a different tone, a deeper and sometimes darker meaning to them. They don’t ring with brightness and positivity, they speak of past inner darkness and pains experienced beneath the ever-changeable moon who watched over her, a formerly aching being who wanted nothing more than to feel love and acceptance. So too, a sense of acknowledgement.
But she doesn’t want to speak of these days. They are long gone, whittled away out of her brain as though a drill had purposefully hollowed them out, creating a free space for positive dreams, a loving space for focused, loyal beings, and fulfilling memories. What point is there in dredging up what used to be, this was not a form of wanted therapy, although one could call it art.
It’s all about how much she is willing to share with others, did they know she’d been far less strong than how she now presents? A once-broken being, upon her knees, begging for a chance at understanding? At being understood. That is all gone, wiped, useless history, and others need not bother with it. She takes the high road, there is no need to speak ill of others who treated her badly. They will receive their comeuppance when the forces deal with them. It is not necessary for her to meddle with this process.
Besides, why look back when she can aim to exist in the yonder?
Instead, she smiles, reverses the meddlesome, dark rhymes and meanings, makes of them positive feelings and dreaming. Of loyal creatures, animals with differing lives, of personified objects that would make her readers laugh and feel so alive. She wants to provide all this to them, to whoever happens to read her version of paper and pen. A joy in life she wishes to feel, and so too should others know, that contentedness in life comes from within, not from an overly flowery eloquent skill or style. Simplistic moments can make all the difference, just watch as she breathes in that perfumed, heady scent, the inspiration she has found she grows drunk upon.
© 2019 Alice Well Art, Lauren M. Hancock also known as Alice Well. All rights reserved.
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Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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