a semi-continuation
Dear Diary,
My most missed activity is being little and sitting and playing in my room. When I am ready to buy a house (if I'm ever ready for that) one thing I will never compromise on is everyone having their own room. It's so important for each and every one of us to have a place they can disappear to, close the door and disappear, even if it's just a fleeting moment here and there. Some situations can't be talked out and tolerated or ignored immediately, some situations need to be put down and left and forgotten and returned to after our heads are cleared, or at least after our hearts are lighter. Sometimes that can only happen in the dark, or silence, or lying on your back and just staring, just running through your thoughts in the order they are received.
I borrowed (permanently) Paul's deceased grandmother's typewriter which has been sitting for two years now collecting dust, lost amongst their other belongings in the garage in a nondescript navy blue case. It's in perfectly new condition, though I'm sure she used it. That's just the sort of lady she was. All the stickers are still intact, the warranty and instruction manuals preserved and placed carefully, centered ontop. I've only opened it and placed my fingers on the keys, I've been thinking of it though and feeling a sort of tingle, a surge in my fingertips for some time now. I think it's almost time. Despite all of this the universe has allowed the misplacement of my writing journals. I have basically scanned my way around our entire apartment wall-to-wall, room-to-room, surface-to-surface, checking every hidden and ridiculous place I would hide something if I were three and a half or two or twenty-three, including but not limited to the trunk of our car, beneath the kitchen sink and inside the girls' backpacks (they've been playing school lately and packing themselves lunches, books, pens and pencils). No luck. There have been tears and temper tantrums and blame and disbelief at the thought of some mysterious stranger sneaking into our hidden basement apartment and stealing them to publish my short stories and support their families on my hard-earned just desserts. What now?
My most missed activity is being little and sitting and playing in my room. When I am ready to buy a house (if I'm ever ready for that) one thing I will never compromise on is everyone having their own room. It's so important for each and every one of us to have a place they can disappear to, close the door and disappear, even if it's just a fleeting moment here and there. Some situations can't be talked out and tolerated or ignored immediately, some situations need to be put down and left and forgotten and returned to after our heads are cleared, or at least after our hearts are lighter. Sometimes that can only happen in the dark, or silence, or lying on your back and just staring, just running through your thoughts in the order they are received.
I borrowed (permanently) Paul's deceased grandmother's typewriter which has been sitting for two years now collecting dust, lost amongst their other belongings in the garage in a nondescript navy blue case. It's in perfectly new condition, though I'm sure she used it. That's just the sort of lady she was. All the stickers are still intact, the warranty and instruction manuals preserved and placed carefully, centered ontop. I've only opened it and placed my fingers on the keys, I've been thinking of it though and feeling a sort of tingle, a surge in my fingertips for some time now. I think it's almost time. Despite all of this the universe has allowed the misplacement of my writing journals. I have basically scanned my way around our entire apartment wall-to-wall, room-to-room, surface-to-surface, checking every hidden and ridiculous place I would hide something if I were three and a half or two or twenty-three, including but not limited to the trunk of our car, beneath the kitchen sink and inside the girls' backpacks (they've been playing school lately and packing themselves lunches, books, pens and pencils). No luck. There have been tears and temper tantrums and blame and disbelief at the thought of some mysterious stranger sneaking into our hidden basement apartment and stealing them to publish my short stories and support their families on my hard-earned just desserts. What now?