'the Twitch'

This is the story of ‘the twitch’. We have all had it: That bit of movement before we sleep. We have been awakened by it when we were younger. . . it threw our arm out to catch us before we fell out of bed. It was even younger than that for us. It was sometimes confused with a kick -- from our mothers’ tummies to the swaddle of blanket. As we grew, the arm no longer flew. . . and thus. . . ‘the twitch’. It is thought that we started with a parting of the energy that mathematicians make Einsteins of, or, sounds of the aria that Mozart’d into our echoes of the day -- a marriage of concept and conceptual. It took us through the outreach of awkward doubt. . . brought us ‘round the curve of nerve for monkey bars toward the first dance; drew blood in our mouths before we got the first punch – given/taken. The part of ‘the twitch’ that is worthy of noting now is that it has never wanted to be caught: It wanted more than nothing to be left alone – perhaps; conceived that it would be an occasion for cause. . . effect – the drive our parents tried to delay with Dr. Seuss and Disney books. A teenage indifference took us away from it. We all fall asleep. . . as we’ve always done. The story of ‘the twitch’ begins at the thumb; carries on. . . for the course of fingers it touched. Brings us a little closer to the edge of our beds.