Trains of thought and how easily they derail

I can’t remember when I first heard the idiom, “Train of Thought” but it always makes me smile.

There, in my head, is this web of railroad track and on it are little carts with all of my subconscious feelings and musings rattling along, working their way through the nerves and zapping out my ideas, words and actions. This makes me think of my brain as a factory. Each thing I intake, whether it be a sight, a noise, someone’s body odor, a feel of velvet on my skit or the way the rain makes my hair frizz, it’s all there, waiting to be processed into my work.

The work is everything. Working can be the 10 minute writing exercises I do in the mornings, it’s the chapters I put into whatever Work-In-Progress in on the front burner and the plotting of stories that will be later projects, it doesn’t matter. There is my little idea train, absorbing the stimulus of the world, delivering it to the brain factory and loading up what I need for creation.

But then. There are Mondays.

I feel like Mondays were put on earth to give me a giant kick in the butt. They are the period of the weekend and the unwelcome beam of burning sunlight that scorches my poor eyes and chases away the happy sleep cobwebs that the fun-spiders of Saturdays and Sundays put into place. Mondays are the day that we all fit ourselves back into the corset of responsibility and go about life earning that precious income.

Mondays derail me. I wake up early, get into outside-appropriate garments and meet the public to do my job. Since I’m a word processor writer, I need Electricity. Electricity requires a place to access it so I need a house. I need water to wash myself so I don’t scare my computer. (Be nice to the computer. She is the all powerful holder of words). Then of course because I have fur and scale-babies, I need to be able to feed my snake and cat. Then after feeding the snake in cat I should probably be fed. Then clothes. And so-on.

Mondays are the switch on my brain-tracks that move the idea production in my head from the lovely warmth of plot, characterization and setting and switch it out with the heavy, dense and dry boards of Insurance, Payments and Claim work. It’s not even the location or the output that I am frustrated with. It’s the sad loss of the thing that I love, for those brief but exhausting hours every day.

In the end, I survive the Mondays, painful and agonizing beasts that they are. The train survives the track change and keeps on chugging, new ideas cooking in the brain factory to be found, once again, after work and on the weekends.

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