Have you ever woke from a dream with a bit of verse on your tongue so powerful you scrambled through the dark to find pen and paper for fear of losing it. That is what it is to be a writer.

Have you ever Googled that verse to make sure you don't remember it from some book?!

And by Googled I mean - use Bing to search for it :-).

Winter's Embrace
I’m cold, so very cold,
Like the winter moon hanging in the frozen sky,
My breath fogs around me, the only testament to what little warmth remains inside,
I huddle against a stone wall, seeking shelter from the biting wind that whips through the empty streets,
My fingers, numb from the cold, clutch tightly at the tattered coat draped around me,
I'm hungry, tired, and alone,
There was a chill in my heart, a void that seemed impossible to fill,
I gaze up at the moon, its pale light casting a ghostly glow over the desolate surroundings,
I feel a kinship with it, and wonder if even the moon gets tired of floating in the vast emptiness of space,
Never finding a place to call home,
A small bit of fluff rubs against my leg,
I look down to find a cat,
I reach down and pick up the small creature, it is as hungry, cold, and lonely as I am,
But, there is a small flicker of warmth within it,
A tiny flame, easily extinguished in the harsh reality of our existence, but it is there,
The small creature clung to that tiny flame, a last remaining shred of hope that maybe, just maybe, things would get better,
For now, we would endure the cold, the loneliness, and the hunger,
Because we knew that as long as that small flame burned,
We still had a chance,
And as long as we had a chance, we would keep fighting, keep surviving,
Until we find our place in the world.

I am hot, so very hot,
I burn in contrast to the night before, as the sun burns in contrast to the moon,
I wonder if I should stand on the surface of the sun, which of us will give warmth to the other,
The cat is still with me, having spent the night inside my thin coat and against my chest,
It hunts now, running ahead of me in search of mice for a morning meal,
I will keep the cat, if it wishes to stay,
I hope not to spend another night as I did the previous,
His stronghold is ahead, he owes me,
Perhaps he could give me one of the rooms built into the outer wall for cherished servants,
I follow the winding streets, willing myself to be inconspicuous,
Shopkeepers are setting out their wares,
They give me stern glances as I pass,
He stands at the gate of his stronghold, waiting, he had agents watching, always watching,
His stronghold is on the same street with a bakery,
My stomach rumbles at the smell of bread baking,
I get no greeting,
"What do you want?" he asks,
Perhaps a room against the wall, and someone to fetch bread, cheese, and meat,
"Should I ask who you are here for?"
"It is not you," I say,
He gives a nod in relief, "Not a room against the wall," he says. "One of the hidden rooms near the baths, you know where they are. And do make yourself available to the baths, I can smell every kingdom you passed through to get here."
"Thank you for your generosity,"
"Is that yours," he asks, nodding at the cat.
"Yes,"
"I'll have fish soup brought for it,"

I flung the tattered jacket onto the worn bedspread, and my cat immediately claimed it as her new throne. She trotted around the bed a few times, exploring every nook and cranny before finally settling on the jacket with a pleased purr. I had stayed in this shabby room many times before, the blackened brick of the fireplace and metal hook for a cooking pot were all too familiar. I stripped off my garments, revealing scars from battles long past. I tossed them carelessly into the unlit fireplace. I wouldn't need them anymore. My only weapon was a cooking knife, I had to bury my other weapons before entering this foreign province, but they could be retrieved later. I placed the cooking knife on the hearth.

A woman entered the room carrying a steaming bowl of fish soup for my cat. As she set it on the bed, her face triggered a memory in my mind. Recognition dawned upon me and I replied, "You're the girl from before. There was an older woman with you."

"My mother," she said sadly. "She has passed. I am in charge of the baths now."

I nodded towards the fireplace. "Light the fire, burn those clothes, and find me some worn teamster garb."

"You have more scars now," she observed.

I ignored her attempt to begin a dialog. "Bring some potatoes and meat for a porridge also, I'm going to bathe now."

I will say when I was writing more consistently,  I'd have a pen and notepad on the nightstand ready for whatever literary drivel would come out at 2am in the morning.  Some of it worked,  others words did not hold up to scrutiny in the light of day.  But it's a good habit,  write down everything,  you never know what those midnight scrawls will inspire next.

Lately I keep having the same dream. In the dream, I solve an important physic's equation, but when I wake, I can't remember what the equation was. It has something to do with tossing pebbles through a floating ring. I'm on the cuspis of greatness, I know it.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, there is a great caterpillar with a harness of silk ropes. The silk ropes are tied to the fabric of time, and the caterpillar pulls time slowly behind it as it marches forward.

"Hello, Johnny." Says the caterpillar.

"Hello, Great Caterpillar, I got lost trying to find you and passed the same day three times."

"Goodness, you've had quite the adventure."

"Yes, yes I have."

"And what brings you to search for me this day?" Asks the caterpillar.

"I was thinking. Birthdays are very special days, they make you a year older each time you have one."

"That is true." Says the caterpillar.

"So, I only want half my birthday this year, and half my birthday next year, and on and on. I'll still be young when everyone else is old."

(I was too awake at this point to remember what happened next, but I'm sure it's very interesting. Maybe I'll find out tomorrow night.)