Rivers Running Over

There are rivers of poetry running through my head at the most inopportune times. I can write entire novels lying in bed in the middle of the night, but by the time I get to the place that I can try and write them down, I just stare at a blank page. It seems to happen with every creative idea I come up, or even with thoughts and feelings I'd like to extract. Maybe that's a summary of my life all together. All these great plans and ideas are running through my head and yet I feel like I am able to accomplish such a small number of them. I guess that brings me to a recent self revelation. I'm not sure that I'm actually an A type. I feel like I'm not actually organized enough to be a true 'Type A'. I CAN be organized, but then I look at all the places I fail to be organized in my life and I go 'What's wrong with me? Why don't I live up to this label?'

Then I forgot all about finishing this thought. Unsurprising. Maybe I will later. But, maybe never.