Waiting for Morning

I'm lying in bed waiting for the children to fall asleep. My wife is at the other end of the bed reading a book titled Waiting for Morning. I know nothing about it, but it looks to have the making of an O-Book.

Waiting for morning, isn't that what every night is about? It's torture for me. I wish sleep would just take me, but it doesn't. And so I lie here, waiting for morning, longing for that bewitching moment when, in one instant, I am aware no more, and in the next, the morning has come.

What do I do while I wait? I look around. At the light, next to my wife's side of the bed, by which she now reads. I spent no small amount of time locating the exact spot for that light, forever ago it seems, once our king sized bed was moved into place, so that it would perfectly provide illumination for reading on nights such as these.

I look at the ceiling fan. We spent hours at Home Depot deliberating which fan to get, what style, what size. Then came the installation, who knows how long that took. I was quite ecstatic once it was done, and a tap on the switch was rewarded with a steady and balanced twirling fan, at all three settings. This fan would, and has, dutifully sent currents of air over our bodies for many a summer nights. It has hung vigilant over our sleeping bodies, doing its job.

I take great comfort in this house, for I built it myself. Quite literally. My hands took part in near every part of its construction, them doing most every part themselves. Dare I say the only part I did not personally do or actively supervise was a bit of plumbing, which resulted in much grief later... but that's a musing for another night. Tonight I just take satisfaction in knowing exactly how everything in this house works (or doesn't work at times.) I know how the wires to that ceiling fan were run, where they lay in the attic, how they are secured, how they attach to that fan, for I twisted the connectors myself. I tucked the wires back into it's ceiling box myself, and I fastened the assembly myself using two strong and sturdy screws. I have no fear of that fan falling on our bellies, for I know exactly why it won't.

There on the ceiling, still resides a splatter of texture spray, put on after the final coat of paint was, to correct a texture anomaly. We never got around to painting over this patch. It doesn't bother me much. No-one notices it, save me, and I think it fine.

I like it here, because I know so much about it, near everything. I went into it, so much of me. I am here, in every length of lumber, in every nail and screw, in every door and window, in everything here, in what you see and what you don't. It is I.

And it is somewhere near this thought that in this realm, I am no more. For a while, at least. I am somewhere else. A place where anything happens and does. Time and space have no place there. And so it goes. And then I'm back. And I wait for morning no more.

story ideas

Here's a couple story ideas.

Mountain Top

I've been here for two weeks now, maybe more. I'm hungry and weak. I'm on the edge of a precipice. It's peaceful here. Mostly quiet, save the sounds of nature. I came here seeking solitude and inspiration, and I do believe I've found it. Only I expected to leave at will, but instead the wild has captured me, enraptured me, taken me. There are many things of beauty and wonder here, and each reminds me of some thing in my life, some thing that I have lived. Some are wonderful, some are painful. Some I long for, some I regret.
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At first I thought it was a memory. It happens often now-a-days, a memory manifested, but they disappear, a hallucination. But I realized the sounds were very real, in the present. I heard the dogs. I heard the distant voices. They were coming closer. Here I am now in my den, covered with leaves and brush. It was the only way I could keep warm. I cannot move my limbs anymore. I am not sure I can even open my eyes, though I think they are open, only I cannot see. I smell nothing now, am I even breathing? But I can hear them, and deep within my head I can feel their footsteps on the ground. I will my voice and it comes out, a whispered, "hello." Yes, my voice seems to work. The dogs, and their handlers are close now. I part me lips to summon them. But I do not. I whisper goodbye to the world, to nobody. I am still. The dogs are near, I presume, but I am gone.

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Depression

In a recent issue of Popular Science, there is an article about scientists implanting electrodes in the brain, and using them to alter the mood of depressives, and it seems to work. Interesting. Could our moods be controlled so easily?

It would be an interesting story to explore a protagonists struggle to live life while under the control of such a contraption. It could be a strictly personal battle to grasp one's one life, or maybe make the scientists adversarial, using the protagonists solely for their gain. Or make it part of a larger conspiratorial plot by a government to control people, first enemies, then citizens. Or it can be a plot by aliens. Or by the devil? The true heart of darkness... they key to our neuronal control discovered and exploited. If our thoughts are not truly our own, than what constitutes our true selves?