it's august
and its hot. i mean really hot. and dusty. i just dusted practically the whole house, sweating like a pig, just to satisfy my compulsiveness. in an hour it will look exactly the same. ::sigh::
i don't even know who i'm writing to on this thing anymore... i'm sitting on our hot couch, under the fan, bored 'n sticky, waiting for my husband to come home, blogging on my sadly neglected journal that doesn't even remember who i am. do I remember who i am? does it matter? i can't play beethoven anymore. does that matter? my songwriting sucks. does THAT matter? what matters?
He matters. i know that somewhere in my hot, sticky head... why is it so hard to feel sometimes?
i don't even know who i'm writing to on this thing anymore... i'm sitting on our hot couch, under the fan, bored 'n sticky, waiting for my husband to come home, blogging on my sadly neglected journal that doesn't even remember who i am. do I remember who i am? does it matter? i can't play beethoven anymore. does that matter? my songwriting sucks. does THAT matter? what matters?
He matters. i know that somewhere in my hot, sticky head... why is it so hard to feel sometimes?