Thinking time

My brain - once filled with multiple thoughts all running at once, all cogent, intact, occasionally bumping into one another yet independently rational and explicable, likened by me to many radios playing at once - has fallen asleep. Words, those shiny, sharp tools used for holding together what might otherwise lack cohesion, now clump in a dirty tangle at the bottom of a dark container filled with parts of things once useful but now incomplete. I've read that writing by hand, as opposed to writing on the keyboard, uses parts of the brain that keep us more mentally whole by connecting the physical brain-functions to the mental composition in a more integrated fashion. So I'm doing some journaling. Maybe it will help. But it is somehow more fun - more actual Fun to type type type. And to wonder at that desire not to be secret in my fear.