Nightly Totally Unplanned and Somewhat Destabilizing Free-write

 At first all day the thought to write was anchoring. All day behind a welcome desk, checking coats. At lunch. At lunch in different places. Accidentally landing in a corporate cafeteria. Everywhere anchored and thinking of writing. Made in memory clearer for having been anchored all day. But now the days are anchored on their own. Wake at 7:30, lunch at home at noon, at 4:30 the burst of joy, at 7:30 songs and then, praise God, TV. The future, even, waves a sometimes almost-friendly hand (and strikes it down, I hope, upon some wood). And so the thought to write becomes unmoored. The suddenness of its appearance in the shallow waters of my nightly mind is like each morning used to be; a shock that made me scream but had to be. The ghostly bobbing, of this poem, on my neurons' ebbing/flowing, written on this phone that keeps me on this couch where I have spent more time than any other place in all my life is just what every other moment used to be but only really was for just four years or so, I guess, but like I used to say (through tears) I'm better bored than stressed.