I have written a million books, with both title and topic, but most are only two sentences long, or formless without words yet. At least the first nine hundred thousand words are forgotten before I've risen from bed. I make a special promise to myself that today will be different. I will make it to the keyboard before I lose the words. My mental bookshelf is infinitely long and thin, holding billions.
Like so many infinite and scattered fake Velcro tipped darts, from a child's dart board game laying scattered on the floor, missing their mark, my fragile thoughts and super mini novellas scatter in chaos across my dreams.
On to the next morning; I repeat by attempting to collect the darts from the floor, throwing them yet again, at another day of fleeting dart boards, in succession, but none reach their mark.
To my personal delight, I nurture my delusions of grandeur. It is my strange alarm clock and inspiration too. Aha! Another masterpiece! Yes, I'm a famous writer! One million books, now one-million-and-one, the thought has its own legs, and they leap to the floor, forcing me to rise, as more adrenaline passes to my pineal gland.
I head to the shower, knowing too well, that the time I reach my destination will forget another masterpiece, an enjoyable writer's Alzheimer’s; the antithesis of the writer’s block. Famous and published as a writer yet again, I'm invincible, and my bipolar book begins and ends on top of the head of the pin where it began.
Reaching for the soap I begin to write another.