Past My Bedtime
He said, "Bill, I believe this is killing me,"
As the smile ran away from his face.
"I'm sure that I could be a movie star,
if I could get out of this place."
Ah, journal, my old friend and confidante. You may ask, how come I to be up so late?
And I could answer you: because there is too much to do. Because I leave work early and fall asleep on my couch. Because I have school work to accomplish, posts to make, chapters to read, tests to take. And still that work to make up. Because I have to run to the store and buy food and pick up the scrips and forget to put gas in the car and drop off the dry cleaning. Because somewhere in all of that I have to bathe and do laundry and put away the dishes and fold the laundry I did a week ago.
Because I have to conserve and dole out my energies to account for the shortcomings of today and the inevitable attempts to rally tomorrow.
And try so very, very hard to cram in a few moments of something I actually want to do so I don't go crazy in all of this.
And none of this gets done. Or not enough of it. So the wise would call for an early retreat to at least have the option of an early launch tomorrow. But the older I get the less wisdom proves to be a strong suit, or even a casual summer frock. And I am here, with you dear journal, and painted nails that will surely smudge in my sleep, a DVD intro repeating in the background as if I had the time to watch it, and all my righteous anger, justified sadness, and honest exhaustion sitting in teacups in front of me--just waiting for the next sip.
I slept from nearly the time I came home last night until about midnight. I slept from around 1:30 am that same night/morn to about 7 a.m. And I am still so tired that I believe my bones are beginning to hate me, like ungrateful children.
Also, I keep on wishing I'd remembered to buy milk at the store.
Good night dear journal. Wish me a restful slumber and a productive morrow. Bid me good luck in finding shiny beautiful things to distract me that don't also break my heart. Don't leave a candle in the window, I know my way back here. It may even be that I never really leave.
As the smile ran away from his face.
"I'm sure that I could be a movie star,
if I could get out of this place."
Ah, journal, my old friend and confidante. You may ask, how come I to be up so late?
And I could answer you: because there is too much to do. Because I leave work early and fall asleep on my couch. Because I have school work to accomplish, posts to make, chapters to read, tests to take. And still that work to make up. Because I have to run to the store and buy food and pick up the scrips and forget to put gas in the car and drop off the dry cleaning. Because somewhere in all of that I have to bathe and do laundry and put away the dishes and fold the laundry I did a week ago.
Because I have to conserve and dole out my energies to account for the shortcomings of today and the inevitable attempts to rally tomorrow.
And try so very, very hard to cram in a few moments of something I actually want to do so I don't go crazy in all of this.
And none of this gets done. Or not enough of it. So the wise would call for an early retreat to at least have the option of an early launch tomorrow. But the older I get the less wisdom proves to be a strong suit, or even a casual summer frock. And I am here, with you dear journal, and painted nails that will surely smudge in my sleep, a DVD intro repeating in the background as if I had the time to watch it, and all my righteous anger, justified sadness, and honest exhaustion sitting in teacups in front of me--just waiting for the next sip.
I slept from nearly the time I came home last night until about midnight. I slept from around 1:30 am that same night/morn to about 7 a.m. And I am still so tired that I believe my bones are beginning to hate me, like ungrateful children.
Also, I keep on wishing I'd remembered to buy milk at the store.
Good night dear journal. Wish me a restful slumber and a productive morrow. Bid me good luck in finding shiny beautiful things to distract me that don't also break my heart. Don't leave a candle in the window, I know my way back here. It may even be that I never really leave.