and suddenly i am compelled to write again

Some things happened recently.  What were the things?  How were they different from other things?  It is hard to begin to say.  Suddenly I want to write again.
Yesterday I woke up in the middle of the night and plodded upstairs into the bathroom to wee.  I turned the light on and went in and closed the door behind me.  I sat down and looked over at the door.  A shadow passed.  It looked like the light under the door flickered.  My eyes playing tricks on me?  I stood up and felt like something brushed against my feet.  And then I saw it, and I screamed.  If you know me, you know the scream I screamed.  It is the scream I make when I drop a spoon, not a knife.  It's the scream that errupts out of me as I try to suppress it simultaneously, saying to myself this is not screamworthy.  It sounds a lot like a mouse.  I know this because as I was screaming and running around the bathroom, so too was the mouse screaming and running around the bathroom, both locked in and doing our frightened little dance.  All I can say is it's a good thing I had already wee'd.
I thought as I was standing on the edge of the bathtub that maybe I should leave the mouse in the bathroom, since it clearly could not get out.  Maybe I could open the door quickly and rush out, and it would somehow be easier to trap it in this smaller enclosed space.  But the door was on the other side of the mouse, and I feel in the depths of my soul that the mouse and I both knew this was not actually going to happen.
I leaned over and opened the door, because I was always going to open the door.  I did it because rather than be trapped in a very small space with a diseased rodent, I would prefer to be in a slightly larger space.  These calculations, they are strictly emotional.  Reason is a lie we like to tell ourselves as if it differentiates us from the other animals.
If I could unzip myself into multiple versions and wander off to have alternate lives, I would spend one of those lives in the wilderness with the wild things.  I would touch base with civilization as little as possible, for coffee and socks and duct tape.  And in this alternate reality, I would not scream my little scream at the mice.  I would live in a fire tower or keep food in buckets, and if I saw a mouse I would say hey you.  Hey you.
In another life I study linguistics and learn sign languages and create a universal sign language like esperanto, only it would be way more awesome.  Because if you were speaking to someone who could hear, but couldn't understand your language, you could communicate effectively while teaching your own language.  And they could do the same with you.  You would be able to teach and learn a language while communicating effectively.
In another life I would learn to program computers and create a website that allows people to share resources like a dispersed library.  You could check out your neighbor's hammer, and your neighbor could give you a five star rating for returning it in good working order.  I would spend my whole life designing websites to share resources and refining them.
In another life I would only write.  I would write constantly unless reading.  I would write everywhere on everything, in bathroom stalls and in other people's books.  I would write so often and so effectively I would make a living doing it, and my vocabulary would never shrink, my skills get rusty, my habits fail me.  I would never break my heart and stop writing as if diseased and broken in a way I could scarcely have imagined before.
In some life, I have a dog and I teach children.  Mysteriously I don't long for alternate realities, because everyone I know is kind and good, I have the distinct sense that the world is getting better, and I never forget to brush my teeth.
Meanwhile, in the one life I really live, there is a mouse in my house.  We are aware of eachother.  I tell myself that some day soon I will catch it, but time is against me and in the midst of my procrastination, the mouse has gotten bigger.