(no subject)
The sun set not so long ago and I am weary.
Sleep is still a stone's throw away and the comfort of that is drifting in like morning fog. Slowly and inexorably.
My bones creak and my muscles ache -- it feels like after a fight. However, it has been a long time since I had to do that. And through it all my heart is not heavy.
I suppose I am content. A good thing to be when you're a day down on rest with still another to go before the work begins again. There are better situations but they are for another day.
Why do I write? I have no idea. Compulsion I guess.
Perhaps a genetic demand to record a thought before it disappears into the ether. Very poetic but not terribly realistic. There must be a reason.
Or not.
Sleep is still a stone's throw away and the comfort of that is drifting in like morning fog. Slowly and inexorably.
My bones creak and my muscles ache -- it feels like after a fight. However, it has been a long time since I had to do that. And through it all my heart is not heavy.
I suppose I am content. A good thing to be when you're a day down on rest with still another to go before the work begins again. There are better situations but they are for another day.
Why do I write? I have no idea. Compulsion I guess.
Perhaps a genetic demand to record a thought before it disappears into the ether. Very poetic but not terribly realistic. There must be a reason.
Or not.