it’s raining outside so i cracked open the window nearest the sofa. cold sharp drops on metal gratings and worn asphalt. i’m warm, all except my hands, chilly from typing outside the sleeves of this ridiculous snuggie.
i find myself in a new apartment, a new home. once again. unfamiliar but with all the same fittings. the acrid but fading scent of new carpet and paint still snakes from room to room. husband asleep with the baby in one room. my older boy snuggled up in his bunk bed. my daughter off to at her grandmother’s for a needed break from the rest of us.
maybe i’m sleepy. even so, i’m afraid to attempt it again for fear of aggravating the frustration that has just subsided after the first failed effort.
i could write. but there is no rhythm or fluidity to my thoughts anymore, much less my words.
maybe i want to sketch something. yet, when i see a blank sheet of paper, nothing dashes forth, ravenous to fill the empty space.
it’s possible that i want to dance. but the sight of paneled mirrors and barres only makes bitterest of bile boil and rise. the body can’t remember what the mind knows by heart.
there are books waiting to be read, words to consume, knowledge to ingest and regurgitate. alas, i have no will to seek it out. no focus to offer.
if we are only conscious for one life at a time, and time lurches when you are still gathering your guts to make the most of now, where does regret or wasted potential go? if we are not to look upon our pasts as any indication of our undeclared futures, yet in saying ‘yes’ to NOW, we say yes to all of eternity, what of untapped gifts with expirations?
