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I WANT. I WANT. I WANT. I WANT. I WANT. I WANT. I WANT. I WANT. sunday nights are circles and circles in my head and i want to write, but this isn't what i want to write. the truth is, i don't want to write. i want to want to write. tonight, i'm feeling like a seashell on display. maybe it's just the sunday talking. music only makes it worse because i'll find the right combination of notes to send me closer to the floor. the aphex twin album i have could most likely coax me up and into bed, but i can't find either copy. and nothing i've listened to so far has given me kisses on my forehead and sent me off to sleep, telling me my bed won't swallow me whole. instead i keep one eye on the carefully constructed pile of pillows behind me, dimpled at all the right points for a quick attack. and one ear on the songs that push my eyelids open and tell me i don't have to work until eleven, certainly i'll have enough time to sleep-- here. sit, stare, listen, think, drive yourself mad, and eventually into the bed anyhow, only then the moon is behind the clouds instead of out in front, where he belongs. part of the reason my writing initially slowed was something my mom said to me the weekend i went to orlando. she told me i wasn't making any sense. and i agreed with her. and it doesn't appear i've made any headway. i have to trick myself into writing (because yes, didn't i say i didn't want to write?) and when i do i only ramble and try to remember if bad sundays come before the good days (because i seemed to have been overlooked on the good days this month), when i have weeks of things to write about, things i will go back and say, "dammit, sara, where WERE you!?" and then try to recall. but it's never the same. i haven't cried over anything in a long time. ... mmm. ... winter is coming. coming to swallow me whole, with his big dirty mouth and her long dainty fingers outstretched and offering turkish delight. or perhaps this seasonal flow is all derived and imagined. or maybe it's just sunday.
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