Tonight, I have work to do.

 

Over my desk, a narrow window cracked open as far as it can go, frames the dormitory blocks across from mine. Gray clouds cover a sky far too well lit to ever see stars, drifting slowly. My phone beeps and a notification pops onto the laptop screen. A picture of a roughly hewn wooden dagger from a procrastinating friend. A click and it is dismissed. The night is quiet again, except for the whir of a laptop struggling with too many tabs, open to an empty word document. 

 

I hammer out a topic sentence. My first main point feels quite trite, but nothing else really springs to mind.  

Beep. Three guesses to find a post planted on the anonymous school forum. A little puzzle, saved for later.

I conjure up an example, contorting it to fit my elaboration of the point. 

Beep. An old red and white gown to scrutinize another time, inspirational enough to spur late night dressmaking attempts. 

I recouple the point to the illustration. What comes next should be a link that connects the first point to the next, but the second point remains just out of sight.

I write what I hoped would be a poignant reflection of the assignment question, but with the second point duller than even the first, it is scrapped. Following a blank stare and some quiet whirring, I slowly exhume the past attempt. I dredge up an example, checking the source to make sure I have it right. A quote to justify something an average joe could derive. This example suggests the plainly obvious.  

Then, as creating very occasionally does, all the ideas click together.

 

My fingers fly across the keyboard. Thoughts crash and merge and splatter and fall into place upon the page. Exuberance builds in my chest. Five lines a minute as ideas pour forth, a geyser uncorked. I shake as ideas condense faster than I can type. The backspace key not to restart but to change, warp and refine. The assignment gains content, then structure, then a flow from point to point to point. Ideas patch old ones and sublimate new thoughts. The writings build a narrative without conscious guidance, blending seamlessly. Black text surges upon digital white. Every thought, chased down, is another sturdy foundation to build upon and inspirational wellspring.

A brilliant sunbeam sliced through the window, reflecting off the opposing block straight into my eyes. Ideas melt away despite determination to keep the tempo, even as I shut the curtains.  The inexplicable ease of my words just moments ago disappear like the night. The frenzy of words becomes a trickle. The sun is up.

 

I ramble about something in my concluding paragraph and submit.