write about...sheep?

i'm standing at the edge of a cliff and i'm going to jump. there's no one here to stop me and even if there were, they wouldn't see this cliff, they wouldn't see the chasm, smiling open mouthed and licking it's chops. in fact, it's a good thing no one is here. they would find me ridiculous, doing arm circles to stretch out my shoulders and pulling my head from side to side. they look out in the direction of my intense gaze but all they see is a flat tract of land, wholesome and mannered as a garden party. but this place is wild and hungry and i am wild and hungry. i stare past the cliff and mark a small cloud. there, that's where i want to go. i've barreled through a pot of coffee and am working on my second. i'm hoping the caffeine will send me into tremors strong enough to vibrate me airborne. i pump myself up, crack my knuckles. i have to do this, i have to do this. i take a few steps back and inhale deeply. perhaps this is how evel knievel felt before his death defying jumps, or saint-exupery before his epic journeys across foreign and hostile lands, or the big bang before it became a "big" deal. it's all the same isn't it? me and evel and saint-exupery and the big bang, just clusters of energy having a course but unaware of what's going to happen, everything speeding up, whizzing about, growing in intensity and light, exploding, and blooming at it's highest over the great nothingness of not trying. and so i run with all the power in me, lock onto a puffy white cloud and leap. is it faith? of course it is. each sentence feels like this: a leap into a land i know little about but intrigues me more than anything. it's true, writers are adrenaline junkies, from their coffee to their free falling prose.

someone once posed a question about sheep. she said, i often see sheep intently staring out into the void, and when i look to see what it is they are spying, i find nothing there. what could they be thinking? i laughed and wondered if perhaps they were just "watching the grass grow". but as i stare into my empty coffee cup, i think, huh, maybe they're all writers, metaphysically leaping over the fence of our simplified earth-bound perceptions. now who's dreaming? or perhaps we're all sheep simply watching the grass grow and maybe some of us will write about it, i mean, walt whitman did! oops, i floated...