Aren't I just a cliche...

Currently, I sit at my kitchen table leaning over my iPad typing furiously. It's manic at this point, and a wee bit unfocused. Meaning that it's not on anything tied to a deadline.

Only moments from now the clock will strike the ominous midnight. Admittedly, midnight is not as ominous at 3 am... the witching hour. The remaining hope my chicken heart has now is that I will be fast asleep before that hour hits, or else I'm screwed, I'm sure.

In hindsight -- it's always in looking back that the obvious is, well, obvious -- I should have seen this incident coming. Woke up thirty minutes late, rushed family through morning routine and barely got my coffee in time for first teleconference of the morning.

Felt a little dizzy but pushed through until meeting with one of my long time mentors where I nearly fainted in front of her. Working at a hospital, she properly diagnosed me with not only the need to see my physician but also as being a jackass for not keeping up on my post cancer monitoring.

Being the childish creature I am, I went to my primary instead of my oncologist where I learned I was merely having a reaction to my allergies, which had compounded my post cancer symptoms. Felt righteous until my primary doc confirmed my mentor's diagnosis of being a jackass.

From there is was home with treatment to stem the waves of my new dizzy world. I promptly took my dose of medicine and entered the world of the dead... or at least the temporary world of the comatose.

Long story short (a phrase which I never got, because it's really short story long), here I am at *gasp* two minutes to midnight unable to sleep because I took a 4 hour round trip to Comaville.

Oh, I promise you, I tried to go to bed, but then nature tantalized my writerly side by bringing this magnificent wind. I lay in bed listening to it and drifting off into the icy, crevice-filled planes of Europa with the majestic Jupiter dominating the horizon.

Then I was on the beach; my favorite beach.  That sound called to me before I'd ever stepped foot in California. Once my bare toes sunk into the sand, I knew I was home. Funny how sometimes home isn't where you were born and sometimes where you've never been.

So, anywho, as I mentally shifted to the beach, this thought whispered in my mind:

"The wind blew as waves rolling eternally, never reaching shore. There was something sad and forlorn about that reality, for it is the wave's destiny to break along the shoreline, dissolve back into the vastness of its home and be reborn. Possibly into a mighty storm."

I lay there for minutes trying to ignore it but found myself writing it down in my bedside notebook with a mechanical pencil almost out of lead. And only a quarter hour after that, I sat at my kitchen table writing.

I know, I know, the whole experience is all very cliche. I guess cliches sometimes are cliches for a reason.

See you all tomorrow. I'll either be dead on my feet or over-wired from coffee ODing.