Someone left the damn flu open again, and all the heat is flying right up the chimney and out into the open air. This heat doesn't just accidentally stumble on the opening in the hearth either; it is actually sucked out with a great invisible force like a riptide. The heat goes up and out until it mingles with the frigid winter air making hardly a ripple before it disperses. It's gone.
I think the flu handle is broken or something because I can't close it. I can't keep the ideas in. I can't even find the ideas because they're flying out the open flu at warp speed, and they're dissembling as they go. Just as I think I catch sight of one sparkling like a dew drop, full of promise, floating in the air, off it flies leaving only the wispiest hint of itself in its wake. It was only the ghost of an idea.
Every once in a while, I'll grab one of the bastards on its way by me and I'll squeeze my hand tightly so I don't lose it. I'll try to calm it down so it doesn't make a mad fleeing dash, and then when I'm as sure as I can be that it's going to cooperate, I breathe in a calming breath, exhale, and then start begging. Yes, before I open my fingers to see what I've got, I do some pleading. I explain to my prisoner (whatever it may be) that I'm not as mad as I sound. I don't hate you for being illusive, I just find it frustrating. I need you, I say. You're there and I know it, you're keeping me warm in your way, but I can't focus until I've crystallized you and let you go myself. You can't just fly away before I let you, you see. All I want to do is keep you so I can write you down. When ideas like you get away, I tell my fist, it's just ... unsettling. So stay with me, idea, and I'll write you down and then set you free. Please.
I arch my thumb, just barely, so I can peek into the dark space in my hand. This could be a good one. My pointer finger follows suit, slowly. Am I trembling? Is this idea that powerful?
I relax the rest of my hand. Please don't fly toward the flu, I whisper.
If I had it at all, it's gone now.