Waiting for the flits.

The thoughts come quickly, flitting into her mind unsolicited. I should write it down, she thinks. Share it with the world. There is no reason not to. So she sits, with blank paper, pen poised.
It's so quiet in the house, she knows it's the best time to write. But it's also the worst time. During the quiet is when she's alone with her own thoughts and doubts. Her own deprecations, and her own reality. In the time it took to focus her thoughts, and sit down with intention, the beauty she so wished to share, is tinted with un-deservedness. Shouldn't she be doing something productive? Isn't there something needing her attention? Something that will be noticed if left undone?
And there it is. There is the problem, she realizes. No one notices when the thoughts go unwritten. No one knew they existed to begin with, so they are not missed. Easily ignored. But she knows, and she knows they are fleeting, these thoughts. They must be captured as soon as they flit into existence, for just as soon they are gone.
So she sits, in the quiet, waiting for the flits, while feeling the call of the hamster ball of domesticity.